The Importance of Keeping Time
by SimplySalted
Summary: Lovino's daily schedule is the blandest, saddest thing you'll ever see... But through fate he felt a spark of life, captivation from a pair of green eyes of another man. Elsewhere, Arthur has writer's block...and he can't find a way to kill Lovino Vargas
1. What's So Important About Wednesdays?

In a bland, still apartment there lays an individual named Lovino Vargas. He is a man of many emotions, infinite calculations, and little words. Somewhere inside the fortress of his heart- a vibrant man was resting. But he had lost touch with it when he grew up. And now his life was an embedded routine- familiar and colorless.

His life had grinded to a standstill. He didn't do anything different at this point and time- he didn't feel anything other than boredom and complete unhappiness.

A wristwatch illuminated the Italian's bedroom with white light- signaling the start of another monotonous day. Every morning for the past 3 years he woke up at precisely 7:15. Then his wristwatch would be silenced seven seconds after it had gone off. And like every other day, he entered the bleached grey bathroom and picked up his pale yellow toothbrush. After depositing toothpaste on it, he started his periodical day with brushing his 32 teeth exactly 76 times. 38 times back and forth, 38 times up and down. While counting, the Italian just watched his blank expression in the mirror.

Lovino moved on to dressing himself. He had decided on a simple black shirt and suit pants- no coat. He selected a red tie- one of his 16 ties…and if he'd randomly picked a tie out of his drawer, the odds of him picking this particular tie were 23%.

Its sleek black frame secured was around Lovino's wrist for every hour of the day. The single tomato decal on the face declaring Lovino's favorite fruit/ vegetable. The Italian ran through the lively, cold city, his watch with him for the same-old adventure. Every weekday he would run at a rate of nearly 57 steps per block for 6 blocks, almost missing the 8:17 Faraday bus to work.

Reaching his place of employment, he walked onto the tedious-looking floor. For three years, Lovino completed 7.134 tax files per day as a senior auditor for the Internal Revenue Service. He skimmed several cubicles on the way to his own, chastising any co-workers who were slacking off. Nearing his workspace, a man spoke up from behind him,

''-Lovino, what's 89 times 1,417?''

''126,113'' was his almost automatic response whilst sitting down in his chair.

He was really good with numbers. Being a tax auditor was a terrible job, insufferable, actually- but this was where he could be useful. After getting out of high school he'd lived a life without rules or regrets. Now, looking back on it, it really wasn't some of Lovino's finest hours- but that was when he felt _alive. _Even though there's no constant threat of police and a home to stay in- is this life really better than that? His wristwatch had just beeped- ending his lunch break, lasting 45.7 minutes.

Beyond his workplace, Lovino lived a life of solitude, and didn't utter a word to anyone other than when he was at work.

He would walk home alone in his silence. He would eat alone. And at 11:13 sharp every night, he would set his wristwatch on the nightstand and turn off the bleak yellow light, encasing himself in darkness to fall asleep alone.

That was, of course, before Wednesday.

On Wednesday, Lovino's watch changed everything.

* * *

><p>I don't own Hetalia...and I never will unless one of my friends carries through with the assassination of Hidekaz Himaruya <em>(What?) <em>And for those of you who have seen the film, _Stranger Than Fiction, _I was inspired by that extremely...but it's not going to be just like the movie I promise..

Guess what? Arthur is **nowhere** to be seen- and he's written as the _**main character!**_ Just...give him a little bit- he's a bit late to the performance- as all the best actors are...

And if you see any grammar errors, anything written that just kinda bugs you- please don't hesitate to tell me! Manners are always appreciated, of course...

Aaaaand, on a side note- I have a corn muffin, fresh outta the oven!

Thanks~


	2. Toothbrushes Don't Talk, You Moron

As the Italian's wristwatch proudly displayed the time 7:15 and declared attention with its beeping, Lovino pulled himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Starting to meticulously brush his teeth yet again, his counting was interrupted…

''_If one had asked Lovino, he would have said that Wednesday was exactly like all the Wednesdays prior. And he began it the same way he- ''_

The Italian stopped moving the toothbrush, becoming surrounded by silence. He stared at his confused expression in the mirror for a moment and continued…

"_And he began it the same way he always did-"_

He pulled the toothbrush out of his mouth and squinted up at the ceiling in question.

' -the _Hell?_'

Lovino picked up the toothbrush and glared at it for a moment, like an officer interrogating a criminal. 'Hello?' He asked seemingly to no one. The pale yellow of the toothbrush stared back at Lovino, not a single sound coming from it. He even held the brush up to his ear for a moment and tried to be attentive.

Nothing.

He shook his head, and sighed- resuming his brushing again…

"—_He began it the same way he always did. When others' minds would-"_

'Hello? ...Is someone _here_?' He asked the air of his apartment. Now paranoid, he looked more thoroughly around his bathroom. It sounded like the voice was _right there_, talking directly into his ear- loud and clear... Looking back to his toothbrush remorsefully- he slowly picked it up and brought it to his mouth yet again. Whether or not Lovino would admit it, he was curious to hear what this voice had to say…

"_When others' minds would fantasize about their upcoming day, or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams… Lovino just counted brush strokes."_

The Italian's eyes narrowed and he removed the toothbrush from his mouth again, accompanied with silence.

"_That's it, _who just said: "Lovino counted brush strokes"?"

The sound of the air conditioning was the only reply.

"…-And _**how**_ do you know I'm counting my damn brush strokes!"

There was no response.

"**Hello?**" His head whipped around the room, seemingly trying to look in all directions at once…

He snapped his vision down to his toothbrush again- somewhat inspecting it- maybe _it_ was the source of the voice…

He exited the bathroom by walking backwards- wide, unblinking eyes never leaving the toothbrush. He stayed frozen in that position- staring at the object while standing stiffly right in front of his bed. He turned his head and examined himself in the mirror, smoothing his hair down a little, he cleared his throat and walked into his closet, picking up a light green tie-

"_It was remarkable how the simple, modest-"_

The brunette sighed audibly and glanced quickly over both of his shoulders, waiting for the annoying speech to continue. With no returning voice, he decided to go on, starting to move his arms towards his neck-

"_It was remarkable how-"_

He walked in and out of the various rooms of his flat frantically searching for the sound. His search was fruitless…And after having a quick look at his watch, he realized he had wasted too much time looking for the origin of the speech. He had no other option than to carry on with getting dressed. He picked his tie back up and fumbled with it around his neck while trying to ignore the talking that resumed…

"_It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Lovino's life, so often taken for granted, would become the catalyst for an entirely __**new life**__…"_

He tried to ignore it throughout his morning. Lovino continued towards his workplace, jogging at the rate of 57 steps per block for 6 blocks again.

"_This was the last dash Lovino would make for the 8:17 bus, the last morning Lovino would hear his breath leap from his throat, the last day his stiff leather shoes would make that terrible squeaking sound as they flexed against the concrete."_

The brunette stopped running, pondering the voice's statement. "Wait…_what? 'The last day!'_ "His expression turned frantic as while looked off to his left, waiting for the voice to continue. He moved his feet, simply curious if what the voice had said was really accurate. More squeaking resumed with his action. He looked up into the sky, perplexed by this voice…He didn't hear it resume it's talking. He did, however, hear the bus to work whirring away from its stop across the street.

"…_for this was an extraordinary day. A day to be remembered for the rest of Lovino's life. "_

The brunette gaped for a second and then snarled at the retreating transportation. He took short, quick steps across the street, walking into a nearby park and sitting on a bench. Lovino looked up into the trees, trying to calm himself and discern why the voice was still going.

"_But of course, Lovino just thought it was a Wednesday."_

He snapped his head down to look further down the sidewalk of the park, trying to observe the people around them- hoping at least _one _of them heard it too… The only person within ten feet of him was a blonde man sitting across from him on a bench as well, his body hunched over, writing fiercely into his notebook.

Lovino observed the strange-looking man with a child-like curiosity. The first thing that caught his attention was the man's ankles, they were crossed…'_Who __**does**__ that?' _He asked internally. The second thing was the man's face, when he looked up from his notebook at the hazel-eyed man across from him- His eyebrows were very…_prominently displayed_, and his eyes were an insightful, calculating green. His lip looked like it was forever imprinted in a scowl, never moved from that position, even when he talked. The third thing Lovino noticed was that, as the man looked back at him, he wasn't really _looking _at him—his eyes were glazed over, lost in thought…his mouth forming words, but no real sound coming out. The short haired blonde snapped his head back down to his notebook, writing again and still mouthing syllables.

The Italian's watch beeped 3 times, temporarily taking him off of his 'people-watching' job and reminding him of his _real _job. When he got up and started walking away, he turned to spare one more look at the short-haired man. When he turned back, however, he saw the green-eyed man staring directly at him, this time in a sharp, focused manner. He scowled and pivoted back around- not even wanting another glance at the eccentric character.

"_What a weirdo…_" he muttered under his breath, starting his task of finding a taxi to get back to work.

* * *

><p>The hazel-eyed man was now at his IRS job, even though he had no will whatsoever to be there - he had been distracted by the events from the morning, frazzled, even. He shuffled past his co-workers as he tried to catch the tax-review files that almost poured out of his hands. Maybe he could ignore the voice completely and it would go away. Maybe concentrating on work will-<p>

"_Lovino couldn't truly concentrate on his work."_

He rolled his eyes heavenward at the irony and nearly bulldozed a woman trying to ask him a question, not even caring enough to apologize. As he almost reached the solace of his desk, another associate started to walk up to him.

"_He was lost. He struggled to compute arithmetic he could normally calculate effortlessly…"_

"Lovino. 67 times 453?"

"Uhhm.." He scrunched his eyes tight, unable to focus on the numbers with all of the different voices whirring around in his head.

"Lovino?"

"I- _Shit!_…I can't_ -_"

"_When a co-worker asked the product of 67 and 453, he drew a blank."_

"_**I can't think while you're talking!**_" He shouted at the voice, seeming to forget that his affiliate didn't hear it.

"What?"

"What!" Lovino stopped mid-speech and looked away in embarrassment- remembering he couldn't hear the speech. "It's…nothing. Nothing." He mumbled.

"_Lovino quickly answered 30,351."_

Taking the prompt from the omniscient-like presence he answered,

"30,351."

"Oh. Thanks." The colleague walked off, giving the Italian a worried look. Lovino took a sigh of relief, starting towards his desk again-

"_Despite the answer really being 31, 305."_

"_Oh, son of a…-_Wait!" He called out towards the co-worker, seeing only the empty spot where he used to be.

* * *

><p>It was <em>there. <em>At every step through the office- every paper he put away, every thought he had…He even tried to convince himself that his conscience had developed a personality different from his- but the voice didn't even sound close to his own.

He walked down the white hallway full of filing cabinets. Sitting on a bench nearby- Lovino was relieved to be alone in his thoughts. He stared ahead at the blank, white boxes, watching as minutes ticking by turned into hours. He hoped staring at the color would bleach his mind and end all of this nonsense. He heard the door open, but he didn't care to look- doing anything to postpone the annoying voice.

"Ah~ _There you are_... Hey Lovino!"

The brunette turned his head slightly to see his brother walking up to him. Lovino would have been irritated, but at this moment, he was grateful to see even _him._

"I know, you don't like visits at work, _or at home …_but I was stopping to visit Ludwig and I just wanted to say hi to you too…"

As Veneciano walked down the hall- slowly getting closer to him, he saw Lovino's poorly concealed expression of panic.

"Lovi—you okay?"

No reaction. The Italian blankly stared forward, waiting for the sadistic babbling to continue. He turned to face Veneciano and fixated on him for a moment.

"Veneciano. I'm being followed." He stated in a whisper. The younger brother gazed at him, and then looked past his shoulders and back to him again.

"How are you being followed? You're not even moving…"

"I'm…" He looked up to make sure the speech wouldn't start again. "It's by a voice."

"What?"

"I'm being followed by a guy's voice." He said it in a lower tone.

Veneciano wore an expression that hung somewhere between amusement and confusion.

"What is he saying?"

"He's…_he's narrating_." Lovino muttered- fascinated with the concept.

"Fratello, you're standing in the middle of a hallway, going through files... What could he be talking about?"

"I- I stopped moving because it was talking…Just…listen-" Lovino paused for a moment, taking a deep breath.

He picked up a paper and started to put it in the file. The sound of the action filled the air for a few seconds-

"_The sound the paper made against the folder had the same tone as a wave scraping against the sand. And when Lovino thought about it, he listened to enough waves every day to constitute what he imagined to be a deep and endless ocean… "_

The whole time the imaginary presence was speaking, Lovino stared at his brother, his wide, unblinking gaze never leaving him while his hands stayed busy with the files. He stopped after it completed its thoughts.

"Did you hear it?"

"You mean….you filing?" He tilted his head to the side.

"No. The… _t-the_ _fuckin' voice!_" He whispered, now even more frantic because his _own brother _didn't know what he was talking about.

"Mmm- …nope. " Veneciano said bluntly whilst staring at Lovino a little longer, trying to understand him, but not succeeding.

"_Oh god…_Veneciano… it's- …it's " Lovino paused for a moment, his eyes glazing over . "The frightening part is that sometimes I _do _imagine a deep and endless ocean…" he muttered, now deep in thought.

"What ocean, Lovi?"

His brows furrowed at Veneciano's lack of concentration."The one made up by _me filing the stupid…-_" He let out a sigh. "_Forget it-_"

A secretary shuffled from behind Lovino and handed him a thin folder.

"New audits. Have a nice day." She said as she continued to walk off.

Veneciano looked at the file and slipped it out of Lovino's hands, reading the label aloud.

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo- a Baker…" He paused in thought, looking up at the ceiling. "I've had Dulce de Leche from there before…It was goood~" He closed his eyes and smiled at the memory, thoughts drifting to a happier place full of whipped cream and chocolate.

Lovino was a good enough brother to recognize that Veneciano was trying to comfort him, even though he had changed the topic. The younger sibling handed the folder back to Lovino and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Lovino offered a small smile back, thankful that he had some work to do- maintaining his dwindling sanity.

"Hmm- Well, I'll talk to you real soon! I hope this gets worked out…Nice seein' you fratello~" The younger Vargas said aloofly as he started towards the door.

* * *

><p>Hey..I don't own Hetalia...-Just sayin'...<p>

And if you see any grammar errors, anything written that just kinda bugs you- please don't hesitate to tell me! Manners are always appreciated, of course...

Uhmm- there's some yandere!Spain approaching..

Thanks~


	3. Sweet, Sweet Tomatoes

So there he was, inside 'El Tomate Dulce', and as he took a good look around, he noted that it actually was a really nice bakery. It didn't look like it was lacking funds either, unlike most people that Lovino had audited in the past. The walls reminded him of, ironically enough, tomato soup. The colors all being warm creamy reds and oranges, blending together to create a harmonious feeling of comfort and hospitality.

Lovino stood in the queue with his briefcase in hand, mentally preparing himself for what could happen next. Looking at all of the staff of the pastry shop, he tried to single out the owner. With all of them wearing a crisp black apron, it was impossible to find a manager of some sort. He decided to wait for someone to approach him.

"Ah, Hello! Welcome to_ El Tomate Dulce_, what suits your fancy today?"

The Italian all but stared at the man behind the counter, practically drinking in his appearance and devoting his memory all of it. This man was certainly graced with height, and his sun-kissed skin gave him an odd air of humility. His eyes…they were so alight and honest- he was probably a _wonderful_ person to talk to. But speaking with people about taxes and auditing doesn't really bring out the best in them. In fact, it makes Lovino one of the most hated people on the planet- but that was beside the point. This man…_this man…_might be kind enough to see that Lovino was a person too, simply doing his job and paying the rent.

"I—I'm here for the owner- Mr.." He pulled a folder out of his briefcase and shuffled through the papers quickly. "Mr. Fernandez- Carriedo?" He said, looking back up to the worker for confirmation.

"Yea—I'm Antonio right here… Fortunate enough, huh?" He gifted Lovino with a charming smile. The warm, bubbly feelings it invoked in the Italian almost made him giggle.

"Ahah, yea…" Lovino felt some relief that this nice man had turned out to be the owner.

The baker left the counter, going back to his workspace a few steps from the cash register. He busied himself with some dough that was sitting on the cutting board- Lovino watched, transfixed at the sight of Antonio's hands. His palms were broad and smooth, treating the dough with such care as he coaxed it out of resilience. And as Lovino's eyes wandered further to watch the brunettes knuckles, he noted that they shone prominently against the man's tawny skin. Antonio's fingers teased Lovino's eyes as they bent and stretched the dough, looking long and slender at one moment, and then muscular and weathered the next.

And his wrists—The Italian could only imagine how they effortlessly moved when they were used for things other than rolling dough. It seemed Antonio had built up great wrist muscles from all the rougher work of his profession. He continued traveling up his arm and watching the various muscles in his forearms tense and relax from rolling the-

"So, what brings you here then?" He said, continuing with his un-answered question and cutting into the IRS worker's thoughts. The interruption was appreciated; He couldn't afford to let his thoughts wander…

"I-I'm Lovino Vargas, here from the… IRS to speak with you about…your…taxes? " He finished in a questioning tone and a small smile, trying to lighten the blow.

"Ahaha, _very funny sir…_" He laughed, his eyes squinting with the largeness of his smile.

"It's illegal for me to joke about audits…" He said in a mumbled in a monotone voice, the Italian's bottom lip started to wrinkle into a grimace, guilty about being practically _forced _to ruin the Spaniard's good mood.

At this, the green-eyed man looked up from his hands and gazed at Lovino with his head turned sideways, allowing the thought to sink deeper. …Abruptly, Antonio's hands stopped their graceful movements. Lovino continued to stare at the man's stiff grip as it sunk deep into the dough. He looked back up to Antonio's face, watching his lips purse together while his eyes went blank..

"_And why would I be audited?_" His tone was still light, but it sounded really tense.

"Because you hadn't payed…"Lovino tapered off, watching Antonio pick up the rolling pin and flatten the dough deliberately slow with a force that seemed over-exuberant. "Your records show you didn't pay part of your taxes last year…And so now I-"

The Italian's jaw clamped shut when he locked eyes with the green-eyed man. His glare was so incriminating that Lovino didn't want to continue. Although the man was a baker, the look he was now presenting made one assume he'd been a serial killer for _years. _And that he knew how to do that job well. _Where did the guy go that was here 3 minutes ago? _

"You're _what…_" Antonio spoke with an edge in his tone, enunciating every syllable painstakingly clear.

'_Why in a bakery, of all places? Why! …There are lots of sharp instruments here-and this conversation is going to hell, way too fast. '_Lovino thought whilst blinking repeatedly. He exhaled quickly, trying to get his heart to slow down. "I'm going to have to go over your returns from the past three years."

"See, _here's what I don't understand_- why all the dumbasses in the government _choose _to send our tax dollars to national defense and corporate loan-outs and the such…I mean, aren't there _better_ things to _**do!**_" He said whilst pounding the heel of his hand into the dough, glaring at his hands.

Lovino glanced around himself, observing some of the patrons giving _him _a terrible glare now. Murmurs of all sorts were being directed at him, varying from 'What an asshole.' to a nice, friendly, 'Get the fuck out of here.' They didn't have the right to be mad at _him._ What did he do? This wasn't supposed to happen- it was infuriating to be a victim of judgmental people.

Antonio continued with his impromptu vox populi, "And it's not that I don't appreciate _everything _the government does- it's just that I really _don't _enjoy going to sleep knowing that my tax dollars are going to give some bastard-president of a big-top company his bonus so he can buy a bigger TV!" The Spaniard threw his hands up, exasperated.

A few particular patrons started speaking up in the café, their insults not getting any lighter.

Lovino spoke louder in an attempt to gain control of the conversation. "_**Well, fuck you guys.**_Who said it was okay to shoot the messenger? Do you think _I'm_ directing the steps the government takes with _**our**_** taxes?** Because, believe it or not, Mr. Carriedo **I'm a citizen too**- and guess what citizens pay? _**Taxes!**_ And those who don't pay _all of them_ are _stealing._ And I'm sure you know that stealing isn't tolerated in this society. So, _unfortunately_, I'm going to have to audit you_- _because you stole from the government_!_"

And with that said he crossed his arms, mustering a glare in response to Antonio's. Lovino refused to be pegged down irrationally with people's frustrations and anger_. _Besides, he wasn't about to get totally whipped by this defiant, wild-eyed man.

"**Fine.** Do your damn job. _Whatever…_"

Lovino tsk'ed audibly at Antonio's attitude. He walked over to a chair and sat down quickly- the chair's skidding being the only sound filling the bakery. He met the other customers' glares with a scowl- still crossing his arms in a façade of boldness.

"_What?_ _I'm not allowed to sit in a chair? Fuck off!_"

A handful of the patrons walked out of the bakery, Antonio simply let it happen. The Italian sat in a nearby chair, shuffling through some tax papers idly while trying to bask in the suffocating, unwelcoming feeling that the air had now adopted. He didn't really _want _to leave, oddly enough. He wanted to continue observing the Spaniard- like nothing had ever happened... He watched Antonio in bursts of short glances, feeling slightly relieved to see the scowl slip off of the baker's face and switch into a more neutral expression as he went about his job. He continued to watch the man scamper about the bakery, putting baguettes into sleeves and grabbing a frosting tube, decorating a little vanilla cupcake with a pink dot of icing.

"_Lovino found it impossible, almost humorous to imagine seeing Mr. Carriedo on a regular basis-" _

Lovino gave a heaving sigh.

"Not now, you stupid bastard…" He said, muttering to himself.

"…_Even though there was a part of him that ached to be around the man- fate had prevented conversation from really flowing between them. And, if it weren't for their previous heated conversation- he probably would've been able to see Antonio later that night at a more private location…_"

Antonio took the batch of treats off of the cooling rack and walked up to the display case, placing a few in their directed locations. He looked up to the flustered Italian quickly while sliding a piece of chocolate torte onto a plate to place in the showcase.

He could hear his brain fizzle while he was staring back into Antonio's eyes- completely swallowed by the pure, vibrant shade of green they presented.

"_The Italian was one who stayed rooted to reality… and never voiced his desires- unless called upon to do so._"

"Uhmm.." The Italian mumbled absent-mindedly.

Antonio broke the eye contact shortly after with a small laugh at Lovino's expression. Considering that Lovino was looking like a dead fish- his mouth gaping open and his eyes unblinking.

"_But his desires were too strong._"

"I…I- " His face was now starting to tint with a light shade of pink, straining to ignore what the voice was saying.

"_He couldn't help but imagine Mr. Carriedo's strong, commanding hands as they gripped his hips, moving his body closer to Lovino's own…_"

He looked back down to Antonio's hands again…allowing the voice to bring his guilty pleasures to the surface.

"_He couldn't help but imagine him as he got out of the bath, little beads of water slipping off of his bronzed body. And afterwards, picking up a smooth, white towel, pulling it across his toned chest and drying off his flawless body-_"

Lovino gasped, looking away. He knew that his face was a painful shade of red at this point.

"_Lovino's mind wandered to darker places against his will…never yearning more for something so desirable as Antonio…He hadn't felt the touch of another in __**three years**__—_"

The words the voice said echoed in his ears, taunting his imagination.

He shot up from the small table, grabbing his folders and shoving himself out of his chair. Antonio noted his oddness with an impish smirk of amusement.

"I'm- I'll just be back on Monday, _okay?_"

And with that said, breathlessly- he rushed out the door and slammed it behind him, not even waiting for a response from Antonio. He took a few strides down the street and stopped on the corner, staring at the tree on the sidewalk across from him- trying to clear his mind.

"_Lovino suddenly found himself beleaguered and exasperated, standing outside the bakery…_"

The brunette huffed and looked up.

"OH, **SHUT UP!**" He screamed, his hands curling up into fists.

"…_cursing the heavens in futility._"

"**NO,** I'M NOT! I'M CURSING **YOU**, YOU DAMNED RETARDED VOICE! SO **SHUT UP** AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!"

* * *

><p>"El Tomate Dulce" is "The Sweet Tomato" in Spanish….I couldn't think of a good name. I'm sorry guys… OTL.<p>

I hope you enjoy! There's more to come and Arthur WILL be in the next chapter!

And, guess what? I don't own Hetalia! Or "Stranger Than Fiction"!

….Big surprise, eh?

Any complaints, questions, or concerns are yours to ask!

~Gill


	4. Lovino Knows That Trees Are Trees

_Taking an exhale from his cigarette, Arthur looked down on the busy city below. He stuck a hand out into the open air, standing on the edge of the building he allowed himself this moment to embrace the breeze. The blonde quietly observed the man on the sidewalk far below, watering the flowers in front of his shop. Arthur took another drawl from his cigarette and then placed it in a tissue from his pocket, extinguishing its flame. He sighed to himself whilst putting the tissue back in his shirt pocket, and closed his eyes. With the honk of a car in traffic below, Arthur's eyes sparked open._

"Mr. Kirkland." A voice from seemingly nowhere called out to the Englishman. He ignored it.

__He lifted his right foot slowly and stared at it, hovering over the city below. And as a particularly strong gust went through his hair, he inhaled and jumped off, sinking into the metropolis below._The feeling was exhilarating, his eyes fluttering in between open and closed as he got closer and closer to the pavement. The blonde's body was tingling as the wind fought against him, trying to break his fall. He was expecting the rough texture of the surface to greet him, even anticipating the comfortable silence in the darkness that followed. _

_It occurred to Arthur that this must be what it was like to die. The last couple of thoughts one received before death had always prodded Arthur's mind. It was ironic to him that the last few moments of life happened to be the clearest, where you can finally see what matters as the light bulb dims out. _

Francis was confused at the sight of this author. The short blonde proved to a more unique case than most, with his hands outstretched and his green eyes glazed over. Not to mention he was standing on his desk during all of this.

"Hello, could you happen to be Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur jumped a little, being abruptly forced out of his day-dream, snapping his head to his side to look at the man who had interrupted him.

"…what is i- _How did you get in here!" _The Englishman squawked incredulously.

"What are you _doing_ up there?" Francis fiddled with his blonde hair idly as he walked closer to Arthur, completely ignoring his question.

"_Why_ does it concern you?"

"Why are you standing on a _table_?"

"_Why do you __**care**__?_" He continued, countering the man's questions with more in return.

The Frenchman adopted a sarcastic tone."...I was just curious as to _**how**_, exactly, you discovered the secret of writing breath-taking novels through standing on a ta-"

"_Research._" He barked at the other blonde, giving a hard glare.

"_Oh…_Well, _Monsieur_ Kirkland…I know that I'm interrupting-"

"**Yes, **_that you are._" The green-eyed man took on a blunt, agitated tone.

"But, quite frankly, I don't care…" He paused for a moment, giving the man before him a sadistic smirk. "They call me Francis Bonnefoy. And I'm here from your publishers to provide ideas…" Arthur narrowed his eyes and glared out the window.

"So _you're _the spy.._._" Arthur opened his eyes to slivers in order to survey the man's expression.

"No…I'm the _assistant._" The Frenchman corrected patronizingly. Francis noted the developing scowl on the man's face. "I provide the same services as a secretary."

Arthur started shaking his head quickly. "I don't _need_ a secretary." His gaze remained fixed on the Frenchman, daring him to continue. Francis looked at the man from his position in the doorway, raising his eyebrows with an impish smile, he took a few steps forward.

"Well, then perhaps you are in need of some ideas?-"

"I'm quite sure that you have absolutely _nothing _to offer me as a distinguished author. And I _certainly _don't need some sparkly, bobbish wanker _directing _my thoughts as a writer. A scripter such as myself can break out of a block _on my own_. " Arthur spat out in a quick rush of air, agitated with Francis' intrusive prodding.

The blue-eyed man gave a cheeky smirk at Arthur's candid confession. "So, _you do_ have writer's block?" He quirked a brow for emphasis.

Arthur said nothing, he glared at the man in front of him- hoping he would just disperse into dust if he burned him with his eyesight long enough. He didn't like Francis already, a part of Arthur was weary because this man, within the course of two minutes had gotten him to confess his biggest case of denial _and _he didn't even have to ask about it!

He clicked his tounge and turned around, he had nothing to say anyway- speaking wouldn't diminish his lack of creativity. He turned on his heel and started walking to the other side of the table.

Francis surveyed the area, noting all of the papers scattered about the desk. The whole apartment was terribly underdone. There were only three rooms, all of them a sterile white, with a meager four pieces of furniture total. The only light sources were the windows scattered about the flat. He did have a nice view of the city, which seemed like the only feature of the living space. He looked up to Arthur again, watching him pace around his table, deep in thought.

"Are these pages?"

Arthur looked down to see what Francis was inquiring about. "No…Those are letters…to _me._"

"Are you going to write bac-"

"I don't respond to letters." He declared, not willing to let the conversation resume in the slightest way.

"And do you _own _a trashcan?…" He continued, gesturing towards all of the crumpled up papers on his desk, searching for another topic for Arthur to exhaust.

"No… they stopped making waste-bins years ago, you twat..." The Englishman's tone was dripping with sarcasm while he raised his eyebrows, leaving a dull expression on the rest of his face to showcase his displeasure.

"Ha. " He let out a dry, monotone laugh without a smile. He looked back up the author observing his features more closely now that the man wasn't looking back at him. He noticed that Arthur now stared deliberately at the floor, his lip in a tight line while his eyes started to squint in thought.

"Have you ever thought about leaping off of a building?" The Englishman still hadn't changed his focus, he was starting to chew on his lip. Francis noted that it appeared to be one of Arthur's many habits.

"No, I really don't see how it would benefit me…"

"It would allow me time to write and have some thoughts for myself… The _sun _might even come out more often…and winter wouldn't be as cold here… There would no longer be children starving in Africa as well…if you would only do us all the favor of leaping off of a building."

"…I try to think of the nicer things in life, Arthur…"

"**Everyone **thinks about leaping off of a building. That's why-"

"Well I certainly _don't_ think about leaping off of buildings." He interrupted, continuing to shake his head with every word.

Arthur stared back down at him, walking slowly over to the corner of the glossy black table where Francis stood. As Arthur reached Francis' side of the table, he crouched down and reached for his lighter. The Frenchman walked up to Arthur, studying the flame that exuded.

"Did you know…" Arthur started. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and brought the flame to it. "I read- in this fantastically depressing book…" He dropped the lighter onto the table with an audible click while pulling the cigarette out of his mouth again. "-that when you jump from a building, it's rarely the impact that actually kills you." He pulled himself down to sit on the table in front of Francis, his legs hanging off the edge.

"_Intriguing._" Francis took a few steps to Arthur's left, uninterested with the Englishman's strange fascination.

"There's a photograph, in the book, called 'The Leaper'. It had a wonderful elegance about it..." He paused; taking another breath of air and adopting a thinking pose with his right hand on his chin.

"From above the corpse of a woman who'd just leapt to her death. ..and there's blood around her head—like a halo…" He gestured an arch with his hands, sitting up a little straighter while closing his eyes- trying to envision the picture. "Her leg's buckled underneath her, arm's snapped like a twig. But her _face…_" He stopped for a moment and put both of his hands on his cheekbones, his eyes still closed. "It's so _serene…_so at peace…" He continued rubbing his face slowly, lightly while still explaining. "An' I think it's because when she died she could feel the _wind _against her face…" He muttered off, slowly hunching forward into his hands. After a moment he took a deep breath and sat back up, looking into Francis' eyes.

Arthur continued, "I don't know how to kill Lovino Vargas." He paused and faced the window, taking another breath of smoke. "That's why they sent you."

"Yes," Francis nodded. "To _help _you, of course, if you could only let go of your pride and _allow it_…"

Arthur hopped off of the table, walking into the other room briskly. Francis trailed after him, picking up the ashtray in an attempt to clear the man's lungs and hopefully, his mind, in the process.

"And _how _are you going to help _me?_" Arthur countered. "_You. _Who never thinks about leaping off buildings, what _great _inspiration will you bestow on _me_? Because I'll tell you, the quaint ideas that I'm sure you've gathered in your _adorable _career as an "_assistant" _are to no avail when faced with killing a man!" He walked up to the windowsill, grabbing the nameless bottle full of clear liquid (Francis presumed it was Vodka, but hoped it was water…) and took a big swig of it.

Arthur obviously was used to only dealing with his own thoughts and the Frenchman had no problem ignoring his moodiness and blaming it all on his very apparent writer's block. His behavior didn't make the Frenchman shrink back one bit, in fact, it left him struggling to hide a smile. The green-eyed man really did act like a child… "I understand."

Arthur swung his head in Francis' direction. "Do you? Because I can't just—I-It…" He turned back to the window, sighing audibly. "As much as I would like to- I cannot just simply _throw_ Lovino Vargas off a building…"

Francis offered the ashtray to Arthur in response. The green-eyed man glared down at it and then looked up at Francis shrugging his eyebrows and, in an act of rebellion; he dropped his cigarette into the bottle- the alcohol extinguishing it with a short fizz.

Francis narrowed his eyes and gave a small frown, irritated with this man's ungrateful behavior. "Listen, Arthur. I'll be damned if I don't give you a _single _idea before your deadline. And I absolutely _refuse _to call in for more time- you will finish this story. And I _will _help you with it, whether or not you approve of my help is not of importance." Throughout Francis' whole speech Arthur just tilted his head side to side, biting his lip like a spoiled child being reprimanded. "Do not doubt me, for if you do, I fear you'll end up with a shock and I will _strive _to inspire you in any way I can." Arthur rolled his eyes skyward with a loud sigh.

"I have not murdered a man…but, I will _gladly_ and _quietly_ help you kill Lovino Vargas."

Arthur looked back at Francis with a slight frown, his eyes devoid of hope.

* * *

><p>Settled in his grey cubicle, Lovino typed away on his computer. He was listless, just like every day. The voice hadn't said anything after <em>that<em> little encounter with _that _particular man…

He looked down to his hands on the keyboard, they were so unlike Antonio's…his knuckles weren't block-like, his fingers were slender and almost looked like a woman's... He grimaced at his realization and looked back up his computer screen, jumping in his chair a little bit when he heard the computer –_ping!- _with the notification of an IM…

'Hey, let's talk!' It wasn't really odd, but the Italian's mouth gaped a bit when he saw it was from Ludwig Beilschmidt. It was weird for the human resources counselor to _initiate_ a conversation, let alone use an **exclamation point**_, for god's sake! _ And when Lovino read the IM again…and again- all he could imagine was the German typing the words into his computer with sparkly pink nail polish, giggling and vomiting rainbows...

_Ugh._

Lovino stared at his computer screen.

"_What the hell?" _He muttered to himself.

'Okay, we're talking…' He typed back reluctantly, not wanting to be rude- this man did have connections with his boss and _disgustingly enough_-his brother, and could pull strings if he wanted to.

'No, we're typing right now. I meant talking, here, in my office.'

"_Oh dear __**god**__._" His face contorted into a look of disgust and mortification. "_What do you want, you demon? Go crawl back into the hellhole you came from…_" He continued talking under his breath, trying to think of a comprehensible response.

'Fine.'

He got up and quickly walked up to the elevator. Hitting the button, steeling himself for the man's awkward conversation. It wasn't even Ludwig's _fault _that he was awkward, for some people it just came naturally. The blonde had a way of 'beating around the bush'-but doing it in such a way that resulted in using really strange slang words and odd rabbit trails of terrible metaphors. Lovino pitied him, and therefore, was more forgiving of his behavior.

* * *

><p>Lovino sat in the chair, leaning back with his hands on either arms of the chair. The German looked over at said Italian and stood up, walking in front of his desk and leaning back on it.<p>

"So, Lovino…I had a little _convo_ with someone in your section today…" He said, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the corner of his shirt.

"Yeah?" The Italian sat there, staring back at the man in front of him blankly, just hoping to get through the day without too much mental corruption.

"And they said you were feeling a bit…_wibbly-wobbly…_"

"_Oh._" Lovino remained glazed over, nodding slowly as he glanced at the German from time to time.

"Catch a little bit of…_cubicle fever?_"

The brunette scrunched his brows together. "Oh, I don't know. I think I'm okay…" He nodded again, just for emphasis.

"Lovino…a tree doesn't _think _it's a tree. It _is _a tree." He added a slight smile, hoping that it would enlighten the Italian.

His expression still hadn't changed, he was only getting more confused.

"_Why was Lovino talking to this man? _"

"I know that we're very sensitive about any possible…" Ludwig's voice seemed like it was fading into the background.

"_This man was an idiot._" The voice said, dominating Lovino's ears and completely blocking out the therapist's quasi-motivational speech. "_This man used words like 'wibbly-wobbly'_ and '_convo_'." The speaker seemed to talk loud on purpose, absolutely ignoring the German. "_And explained that trees…were trees. "_Lovino just stared at the blonde with the best poker face he could muster. _"Of course trees were trees. Lovino __**knew **__trees were trees. What Lovino didn't know was why he couldn't shake the scent of brownies from his senses…Why Mr. Carriedo had made his fingertips quiver and lips go numb._"

He looked down to the floor, his face changing to a darker shade against his will. Ludwig stopped talking and looked at the brunette, concern lacing his expression.

"Mr. Vargas?"

"Hm?" He looked up again. "…Yes, sorry about that."

"What's going on, Lovino?" He sat down in a chair across from the Italian, squinting at him like he was under scrutiny.

"Well…" Ludwig leaned in closer, silently coercing him to continue. Lovino stared back at the strange man- discerning whether or not he should really continue talking. "Nothing. Everything's fine." The German's expression remained the same, hoping to wear down Lovino's impulsive lie. But to no avail.

"Listen," The blonde said sharply, standing up and walking towards his desk. "according to your records, you haven't taken vacation in a few years now…Let's say you take a little break. Use a little of that… _va-cay_ time."

Lovino wore a tight lipped smile, giving a small nod to Ludwig. "Yeah. I'll think about it…" He stood up from his chair, ready to leave the room.

"Lovino." The Italian turned around, his patience wearing thin. "I'm really not supposed to do this, but- um…" He walked up to Lovino quickly, wrapping his arms around him in a tight lock. Lovino stared out the window as he felt a part of him die inside. He allowed himself to be hugged by the strange German, his arms staying pinned at his sides, standing stiff as a board in the man's arms.

"Yea…Bye." He muttered, bubbling over with embarrassment and impatience. He dragged himself out of the blonde's arms by turning around whilst opening the door and exiting in one smooth movement, leaving Ludwig in the room alone with his arms hanging at his sides, worried.

Lovino didn't know what he had just experienced; and he really didn't want to think about it either. It was polluted his behavior just being within two feet of the man…let alone a fucking _hug. _They saw each other, what, once every _five months? _And when they did, it was just seeing each other in the hallway! They didn't even _say _anything to each other when they _did _happen to cross paths!

* * *

><p>The brunette stood at the bus-stop, blending in with all of the other business men that were waiting for the transportation. Randomly, Lovino's watch lit up and started beeping frantically. Little symbols and emoticons lighting up on it that the Italian didn't even think it could produce.<p>

"_Lovino assumed his watch was simply on the fritz and never even considered that it might be trying to tell him something._"

The Italian was focused on fixing his watch and so, he failed to notice that Antonio Fernandez- Carriedo himself was walking along the sidewalk parallel to the bus-stop, bouncing along and stopping to look into some windows on his way.

"_In fact, Lovino had never bothered to pay attention to his watch other than to find out the time. And, honestly, it drove his watch __**crazy.**__ So, on this particular Wednesday evening as Lovino waited for the bus—"_

Said Italian continued fiddling with his watch, and seized all movement when the screen stopped lighting up and beeping all together. The hands of the watch automatically set back to their store-bought position at the number 12, and Antonio disappeared around the corner.

"…_his watch suddenly stopped._"

He looked up to glance at the other men around him. "Sorry, does anyone have the time?"

A man nearby spoke up, "Yea… I got 6:18."

"Thanks." He turned the tuning dial on the watch's side, setting it to said time.

"_Thus, Lovino's watch thrust him into the immitigable path of fate. Little did he know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act…would result in his imminent death._"

"What?" Lovino looked up into the sky. And once again, there was no response. "_What?_ _**Hello!**_"

He received weird looks from the others waiting for the bus. They all avoided looking at him, trying to ignore his strange, unexplainable behavior.

"_**WHY, DAMMIT?**_" He started to scream in panic. "WHY _**MY**_DEATH, YOU BASTARD!" Lovino was in a state of hysteria, his brows raised heavenward with his mouth wide open. "…_**HELLO?**_"

It was one thing to narrate, Lovino could tolerate that over time. But making assumptions, especially about something as serious as _death, _was really not appreciated _or_ accepted when it's referring to one's real _life_. "EXCUSE ME!" He continued pressing, regardless of receiving an answer. The bus started to pull up as some of the workers piled inside. "**HOW** IMMINENT?"

* * *

><p>Sorry to end it here, but another new chapter will be up tomorrow, I promise! It just…seemed like a good place to stop…You'll see what I mean when you read the next part- besides, this was getting rather long anyway..<p>

Sooo, did you enjoy Francis, Arthur, and Ludwig's intros? Are they written too strangely? Anythin'?

Thanks for reading! Much more to come!

~Gill

(I don't own Hetalia or Stranger Than Fiction and I will never sell the characters, or anything else off as my own—I might design a wristwatch like Lovino's though… eheheh)


	5. Good Therapists are always American

Lovino burst into his apartment, stumbling by his coffee table and almost falling. He yanked off his coat and threw it along with his briefcase onto the couch.

"_OKAY-_WHERE **the FUCK are you**?" He yelled into the hallway of his bland apartment. It was still and empty as it had ever been. He walked quickly into his bathroom, whipping around to face his toothbrush- it's silence interpreted as a taunt by Lovino. He picked it up stiffly and held it up to his ear. With no response he squinted his eyes and frowned, picking up the toothpaste, he dispensed some onto the bristles.

Shoving the toothbrush into his mouth, he scrubbed his teeth messily, wanting nothing more than the voice to say _something. _"Lovino would brush his **goddamned 32 teeth** **72 fucking times!**" He talked around the brush in an attempt to prompt the voice. He spit out the froth of toothpaste and threw his sad yellow toothbrush onto the floor, leaving it there.

"WHY WON'T YOU SAY ANYTHING?" He darted out of the bathroom, into his beige bedroom "I…I fucking _heard _you! 'Would result in his imminent death'- I HEARD YOU!" His outraged tone was melting into a pleading one. "Come on, _you stupid voice_!" He took three large steps to his nightstand and yanked the lamp off of the table, unplugging it from its socket in the process. "Lovino frantically grabbed his lamp!" He started to mock the voice, even trying to direct it. The brunette seized the silver lamp by its neck and swung it around him in a half circle.

"Lovino, incensed, _**shook the hell out of it**_ for NO APPARENT REASON!" He continued, throwing it onto the ground forcefully. "And smashed it on the ground- KICKING IT REPEATEDLY!" He stepped on the light over and over, deforming the lamp-shade indefinitely and shattering the light bulb in the process. The lamp was thoroughly decimated as he stumbled over to his dresser. "Lovino took his tissue box and-" He chucked it angrily across the room. "_Threw it across the god-damned room_ _**and then**_** STORMED THE FUCKING' CLOSET!**"

He ripped a handful of clothes out of his closet, falling completely off of their hangers and onto the floor. Sliding another drawer open, he started pulling all of his ties out of their directed spots- letting them soar in every direction in a colorful display. "Dammit…._why won't you say anything? Just-Something… SAY SOMETHING!_" He yelled at himself in single mirror that was in his closet. "**SAY SOMETHING!**" He took deep breaths, starting to feel light-headed and nauseous.

He pulled away from the mirror, slinking back to his bed and sitting on it- defeated. "Lovino, feeling distraught…" He mumbled, falling onto his back. He closed his eyes and continued to breathe, only focusing on that single action- eventually, he fell asleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning's hours ticked by- The Italian slept right through his watch's beeping without a care…<p>

Lovino's eyes slid open, staring at the blank, white box called a ceiling above him from his bed. He sniffled a little, still tired and head aching from his outburst… He reached for his phone underneath his pillow, sliding his hand around aimlessly before colliding with it and grabbing it, pulling it in front of his face.

Two missed messages… _Better than none._

The first one was from his brother, and it read: 'Hey Lovino!~ Luddy's acquainted with a guy, who knows another guy that's related to a guy who can help you!'

The Italian shrugged his brows, mildly impressed that Veneciano had managed to spell 'acquainted' correctly.

"Lemme see 'em- just give the guy my number and I'll talk." Was his reply, not particularly caring that the message was sent a few hours ago.

The second one was spam- something about '_saving_ _500_ _dollars now! And you can keep your car, house, and clothing, but we're taking your identity and lighting your bed on fire! Muahaha~_'

Nothing had proved how insignificant his life was like those two texts just did.

Those were his only "friends" in the world…

His brother and a cash-stealing robot.

…And maybe Antonio- but just not yet.

* * *

><p>He climbed the concrete staircase, trailing after the fast talking American. "So <em>you're<em> the dude who hears the voices 'n' stuff that my brother told me about? … " Alfred started.

"Unfortunately, yes." He trailed after the blonde. Lovino had never seen someone climb stairs this fast in his _life._ Did he really even _need _that cup of coffee?

"And they said you were just gonna quit life real soon_?_." He said, continuing his ascent with an aforementioned cup of coffee in hand, a composition book tucked in his elbow as well.

"Uhh- yes."

"Wow. That's harsh…" Alfred started walking towards his door, stealing a sip of his coffee before grabbing the handle of his door with his other hand and swinging it open.

"Soo- when are you dying then? Next Tuesday? Tommorow? _Tonight?" _ He said it all so carelessly, in a smooth sentence, looking up from his pile of papers in front of his desk. The American placed the notebook onto the furniture and walked over to his wall of movies- skimming over the large collection.

"It didn't say…-" That was a really scary, sobering thought…dying _tonight? _What would he _do_ with his final hours? '_Go make things up with Antonio.' _His subconscious answered for him. He scowled and told himself the odds are that some air-headed part of his brother seeped into his brain over his years…becoming a second conscience and _that's _why the sentence popped up in his brain.

"Dude, that absolutely _sucks._" He said whilst surveying all of the titles. "….but doesn't hearing voices make you a crazy person? Because I've never really heard of such a thing as _narration_! Are you sure you aren't just _psychic?_ " He turned around to face the Italian awaiting a response.

"…uhhm- I-"

"_Quick!_-What am I thinking about!"

_Oh, what the hell- why not try and guess. _"Tacos. The beef kind. No sour cream, and extra lettuce…"

"_Dude_…._Oh my god._" Alfred all but gaped at the man, his arms hanging at his sides in awe while Lovino strolled over to a chair, picking a seat. The Italian laid back into the chair with a smirk from his success.

"Hmph-"

With a DVD selected, he glided over to Lovino's side of the room and hopped into a chair across from him, his legs hug over one arm of the chair, back resting against the other arm. "Soo- tell me about yourself!"

Lovino looked back at him, his brows scrunching a little from being put on the spot." I-..well, there's really nothing important about me, I guess…"

"Naw—come _on…_You've gotta have _something!_"

Lovino didn't say anything in response- he stared back with a blank expression, completely serious.

"…Any siblings?" He queried idly, pre-occupied with the back of the DVD in his hands.

"One, a younger brother."

"Ahh, me too, man—Welcome to the club…-Does your 'inner-voice' have one of those _really _deep voices?"

"What?" He wasn't following, the blonde was already talking a mile a minute, but now he was using vague terms, making conversation near impossible.

"You know, "**Lovino thought his life was perfect- BUT THEN- one day…it was all turned around. His **_**evil nemesis 'Jacques Berman' showed up!**_** Join Lovino on his journey! IN THEATRES JANUARY 25****th****!**" He spoke in a bulky, baritone voice- trying to imitate a dramatic speech as much as his vocal chords would allow. Fanning his hands outwards in a dramatic fashion.

Lovino ignored how much the last name rhymed with 'German', deciding to complain about the very French part instead…actually- the whole label was just messed up to start! "What kind of a name is that?...And It's not an inner voice- "

"That's not the point, Lovino…I'm askin' **what** it sounds like!"

"Well- It's a guy…"

"Mhmm-" Alfred pulled his legs off of the arm of the chair, sitting the correct way in it. The American pushed his glasses further up on his nose and reached for a composition book on the nearby coffee table, a pencil already stashed inside. He started scribbling messily- it appeared that he was writing all over the page- a little sentence in one corner, a sketch in a spot near the middle. Another quote stashed at the bottom near the binding...

"And—I've never heard it before, I can't really pin it to anyone…—it wasn't Morgan Freeman or anything…"

"Ha!" Alfred looked up, amused at the idea of that…"Dude, that's too bad- because that would've been _awesome_…" He looked up for a moment, putting his pencil to his lips in thought.

"But it's a guy…and I don't know him…and he said my death was imminent."

"So, if a random woman walked up to you on the street and said you were gonna die, you would believe them too?" He cracked an odd smile with his statement.

"No! It's just that it—I hear it say things that I've never told other people!"

"Oooh, _like what?_ I mean really- does it recite all of your fetishes in _alphabetical order?_" The American obnoxiously waggled his eyebrows, taunting the Italian.

"That's _none of your business_, bastard." He bluntly stated, hoping to move onto a new topic.

"What, does it whisper _dirty thoughts _to you_?_" Alfred snorted to himself, throwing his head back and breaking out into a fit of loud cackling. Lovino stared back at him, unamused.

Once hearing his phone ring, however, his eyes suddenly shot open, laughter seizing completely. "Oh shi- " He pulled himself forcefully out of the chair and scrambled up to his phone on the desk, picking up the receiver. "Hello? Ah—_Yea. I will….mhmm- _Sorry about that…Bye."

He turned around and faced the brunette- scratching his head and smiling sheepishly. "…Yea- you see….I forgot about this appointment I made—I'm sorry…" Lovino stood up and walked up towards the door, nodding in small thanks- about to leave. "Wait! Can you come back this…Saturday? …..No, wait- scratch that- you might be dead by then- come back tomorrow, okay? 2:30…" He turned from behind his desk and faced his _very _cluttered bulletin board, grabbing the pencil and drawing an L with a star on the box labeled "Thursday."

"Thanks, Mr. Jones, but I-"

" -I think that tomorrow I can bring you a list of questions or something—maybe find out what story you're in? " He completely blazed through whatever it was Lovino was going to protest about.

"Great." Lovino said in a monotone voice, sliding out the door and into the paved jungle of the city.

* * *

><p>Hey, I don't own Hetalia or Stranger Than Fiction (and….I'm getting tired of writing this disclaimer :I )<p>

Also, webcomix, if you're reading this…I _will _branch off- I'll really try! I hope you see a slight improvement here (I know—the beginning of this chapter is absolutely terrible- but that's the last thing you'll see that's dead-similar…I've developed what I've wanted my characters to do- remaining with plot)…and I'm going to go back and re-do some chapters as well...changing some responses here and there.

And on another note- thanks for the reviews you people have given! (Yes- I know…there's only, what, _five _reviews? Pfrrrt-) But they're helping me become a better writer and develop confidence- so thank you!

Did you like Alfred's character? He's like a brother to me—considering my sister acts like him and people always look at me and go, 'Oh, I almost called you by your sister's name, you guys look _so alike! _Speaking of her, _where is she?_'

And then I answer them politely and they walk off to have a more dynamic conversation with her…

…Yep.

(But it's okay- because Matthew seems like a pretty chillin' guy to be around…no pun intended…you know with him being…a Northern..country…n' all…- *gestures awkwardly* …Yea….)

OKAY. I'm done ramblin'

Thanks again! ~Gill


	6. Different Kinds of Burning Sensations

The next morning was day number 2 of his emergency vacation- but, it wasn't really a vacation, he just refused to show at work anymore. He sat up in bed- glancing at his watch and noting the time, '8:30 AM'. Not feeling tired, Lovino put on some light running shoes and walked straight out the door- an impromptu stroll would be nice…

The city was bustling about, people walking hurriedly across intersections and scrambling into taxis…It was consoling to the brunette, to be able to sit in one place- not worrying about being on time or what a certain answer was to a calculation. His only obligation was that little appointment with Alfred later today- Because, apparently, he might be dead by Saturday.

His happy expression dimmed, thoughts funneling into sadder things.- _What do I really want to do before I die? _Lovino tried to cling to the hope that he didn't know the voice, so that didn't mean it right about this tragic conclusion. He fished around the pockets of his pajama pants, digging out his iPod and blocking the world around him with his secret, reckless -_It was considered reckless compared to Lovino's regular schedule- _passion.

-There was something about Italian ska music that made him throw his hands out to his sides and swing his hips in his step. Rocking his head side to side in sync with his hips as he walked- a grin breaking out on his face with the rambunctious beat.

* * *

><p>Elsewhere, Arthur had woken up as well- and Francis, having just discovered the Englishman's fond hatred of Edith Piaf- sung various French tunes of hers at the top of his lungs from the kitchen down the hall. Arthur remained in the bed, Francis' white and blue striped covers pulled up to his chin with the grumpiest scowl he could muster- His eyebrows furrowed so close together that one would think he had a unibrow.<p>

Certainly, if Francis had seen said expression, he would've laughed heartily and, after taunting Arthur thoroughly, waltzed out of the room, preserving the face forever in his memory to talk about at a later point in time with great detail.

The green-eyed man let out a huff of air as he flipped the covers off of him, sitting up and swinging his feet to the side of the bed. He stood up, taking a few wobbly steps and then walking out into the pale yellow hallway. He was already exasperated because Francis was repeatedly, _and purposefully _pushing his many buttons.

And do you know what said Frenchman had done once Arthur had fallen asleep on the chair (which was his only piece of furniture that was mildly comfortable) in his apartment that night? Only after knowing the Englishman for _one afternoon- not even 24 hours!_ He picked the sleeping blonde up, carrying him into his _car_- like a **rapist**, and _drove _the green-eyed man to _his own house!_

_-While he was asleep! A __**complete **__stranger!_

Arthur had already thoroughly gone through the motions of being a panicked, repulsed, and more-than disturbed Englishman. And now, he didn't view Francis worthy of any more amusement by showcasing those emotions again. Besides, the blue-eyed man was making breakfast- which was looking quite inviting, and he had a bed here, which he was smart enough to leave to Arthur alone. But only after taking the Englishman's hint, which consisted of literally kicking Francis out the bed _multiple_ times, full of so much loathing he didn't feel a twinge of pity as the hollow sound of Francis' body hitting the floor resounded, yet again. By the fifth time the Frenchman had kissed the ground- now grumbling and groaning in defeat, he had to stifle his laughter, hiding his smile under the sheets.

And that same smile was returning to his face as he remembered the sound again. _That __**would**__ be quite the ringtone…_

"What's with the smile, Monsieur Kirkland?" Francis queried, flipping the omlette on the skillet without thought.

Arthur stared at the man, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. "I'm going to take a shower." He stated whilst walking into the bathroom a few feet away, successfully evading Francis' question.

He grabbed a clean towel off of its bar, placing it on the counter as he un-clothed himself. After stepping into the bathtub quasi-shower and fiddling with various knobs and levers, he figured out how to turn the water on and went through the daily motions of cleaning himself. It was odd, but Arthur always got his best ideas while in the shower—maybe it was because his mind was preoccupied…that's when one always remembers things, right? So why wouldn't it be the best time for open, random thoughts to drift in? That's why Arthur, after finished with his routine shower, sat down on the floor of the white bathtub- letting the water fall on his head, metaphorically cleansing his thoughts…

He reached for the temperature dial- turning it a few centimeters towards the red 'H', enjoying the odd sensation that the burning water presented him.

'_Maybe Lovino died in a house fire…_' And, after a moment, he reached for the bathplug, stopping the water from escaping down the drain. He wanted to embrace the uncomfortable warmth in hopes of getting a step closer to understanding Lovino's death.

"Arthur, what's taking you so long?"

The author said nothing in response, not daring to break his bout of inspiration. He knew Francis would ruin it- _absolutely positive._

"Please don't tell me you're masturbating in there…_" _The blue-eyed man trailed off, sounding forlorn.

The Englishman scoffed at Francis' blunt vulgarity- embarrassed that the Frenchman would even dare to _imagine _such a thing. "_Will you just __**shut up?**__"_

And the conversation had concluded there.

'…_trying to save Antonio from a riot that had gone a bit too far…?'_ He continued his thoughts, allowing the heat to ebb up to the rest of his body as the water level steadily rose. The swelter of the bath was soothing to his skin for a few, brief moments- and directly after the pleasant tingle was a piercing sting that lasted even longer than the tingling. He grimaced slightly, trying to bear the pain and focusing on the prospect of his skin adjusting to the extreme temperatures.

He reached his foot up to turn off the faucet. The cozy warmth combined with the light-headed feeling that followed the stinging made him exude a sigh of bliss. But as he'd imagined the feeling through a fire- he noted that the ache was a bit too intense in between the panic and the peace…_simply not poetic_ _enough._

He slid down further into the bathtub, the water submerging him up to the bottom of his nose. He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly as the water was directly below him. '_What about drowning?_'He pondered- sinking even deeper into the tub, denying himself air. After a while- his comprehension stared to blur, and he gathered that the burning was still apparent-only it gathered in his lungs. The blonde's head started to loll sideways, the feeling of keeping his skull upright becoming a taxing one. The burning sensation in his lungs grew more intense, rising higher up into his throat- becoming unbearable as he tore himself to the surface again with a rush of air, snapping his eyes open again.

"There would still be that moment of panic as that burning got the better of him…" He muttered absent-mindedly.

"Are you talking to yourself, Arthur?" Francis interrupted

"_Will you __**shut up?**_

"_Maybe if you stopped talking to yourself…~"_

"_For christ's sake, __**you**__ talk more than a __**woman!**_" He slapped the water with the palms of his hands, enraged. The green-eyed man stood up in the tub, fishing the water stop out with his foot and getting out- surrendering his dream of a world without the Frenchman.

* * *

><p>Lovino found himself strolling through the park he was just at yesterday- walking for the sheer reason of walking. He sat down on the same bench as before. <em>This is the one where he saw that strange blonde man.<em>

"_Death in a house fire…_" The voice cut through his thoughts.

He turned around, hoping to see aforementioned green-eyed man that stuck out in his memory- _Well, there were actually __**two**__ green-eyed men who he couldn't forget…_

The ska music failed to quell his mood any longer. He got up and walked further, out of the park and onto the sidewalk full of storefronts, also in the opposite direction of his apartment. Not even glancing into the alleys as he heard the voice continue, afraid to see someone reach out and end his life.

'_Shot in an alley?_'

'_Mauled by a drunk driver?_'

It continued talking in this questioning tone, reciting ways to die like one would offer different flavors of ice cream to a customer…

Lovino _was _ready to fling himself into traffic, the constant reminder of looming death was driving him insane- He didn't know how much longer he could take the voice without retorting it. And so with that, the Italian decided to make a sharp U-turn with his body and resume his walk- his new destination being his flat, simply because he could shout and scream at the voice as much as he wanted there.

He stopped dead in his tracks though. Ripping his earphones out and shoving them into his pocket, not necessarily caring that the next tracks would continue on. Because a _certain man _had shown himself in those short, life-changing seconds.

Antonio had an empty box in his hands, walking out of the alley. Lovino's expression took on a grimace, drug-dealing _did_ kind of ruin Antonio's whole 'I-wanna-save-the-community' vibe… But the Italian's eyes perked up when he saw the man trailing behind the Spaniard, with two cupcakes, both vanilla and decorated in white frosting, in his hands and a wide smile.

"Thanks so much, Toni…"

"Ahaha, you're very welcome! And- please, don't hesitate to ask when you're hungry, Marx. I understand!"

Well, serves the Vargas right for making assumptions- _Those cupcakes really looked delicious... _He trailed behind the baker- never getting closer than 5 feet to the man.

The wind carried Antonio's spice to Lovino's nose- tempting him to walk a little closer. The Italian resisted, settling for taking deep inhales every few seconds through his nose instead. He pursed his lips, blinking rapidly. _Ohh, it was intoxicating-... _The scent of apples, cherries and other fruits _like tomatoes _struck his senses andlulled him into a content haze… while the cinnamon aftershock drove him out of it, leaving him tingling_. _It reminded the brunette of spiced plums- a peculiar perfume he'd bought in some under-the-radar, cozy shop while on vacation in Aruba. It was the best of both worlds, spicy and sweet…just like the Spaniard himself.

The Italian smiled to himself, watching Antonio swing in his step, _even without music in the background. _It appeared that the he had a natural feeling for rhythm…and Lovino did remember that music was playing in the background of the café when he was there. The green-eyed man had chosen some dark wash jeans today…_Good taste…_Lovino observed with Antonio's hips swishing in fluent movement as he walked-or rather _flowed_- in such a smooth motion that walking didn't even _begin _to describe it.

The grin that was steadily growing larger on Lovino's face as he followed the green-eyed man dropped immediately when he saw two women walk up to the Spaniard, giggling in their _stupid slut-banger outfits that they dared call clothes_. But, he overheard a _gem _whilst listening to their conversation from behind a nearby lamppost.

What was that he was hearing? "I'm not interested…- I don't want someone to date?" The Italian's eyebrows rose in shock, a giddy feeling starting to bubble up in his stomach. Lovino knew he could change Antonio's viewpoint on that….but, for now, since the green-eyed man wasn't on lookout for anyone- The Italian considered him _all his. _

_Yes…he'd forgive them for being so foolish to try and hit on his man. They were only human after all, and Antonio was simply irresistible- unless you had a blindfold on...and, even then, if you did, you would be waiting in anticipation…waiting for him to surprise you with his tongue running down your neck and -_

A quivering sigh escaped the Italian- his heart rate doubling over in excitement while his eyes slid closed, sinking down to the floor against the post. The brunette's hands and toes curled, delighting in the sensations that his imagination eagerly produced. But he opened his eyes again- staring at the pavement in front of him

_Wait- __**what?**_

…processing _where, _and _how, _exactly his mind had concluded to those thoughts.

Lovino shook his head rapidly, clearing those dreams from his _nasty, polluted- it was __**all **__Antonio's fault he was like this- _mind. He took a few steps from out behind his hiding place, watching the two provocatively dressed women walk off past him, wearing small frowns of disappointment.

_Serves them right, bitches. _

Antonio strolled into a shop- cutting off the brunette's sight of him. The Italian hurried over to the doorway, watching the light that filtered out of the green wooden doorframe with his hands in his pockets. And he, still in his pajamas, stopped walking, assuming he was not presentable and most likely, unattractive to the green-eyed man. The Italian savored the last moments of Antonio's retreating back- sighing to himself and slouching, he trudged away in the most despondent, unhappy posture he could muster.

* * *

><p>Arthur sat at Francis' dinner table, writing rapid, incomprehensible notes consisting of things like<em> 'Lovino died in house fire' <em>and '_Mauled by a drunk driver?" _The exact things Lovino had heard whilst on his morning walk, but Arthur didn't know that.

"Maybe Lovino is deathly allergic to something that his love makes him?" Francis offered

"You don't even know _who Lovino is_, let alone who he _loves_…or even if he is loved…"

"_Oh?_ You would really be so cruel and deprive one of the exhilarating feelings of love?"

"It's not _my problem_ if Mr. Vargas simply isn't a loveable person. It's _his _personality…"

"Ah, but you're the one who _wrote _him that way. Tell me… is Lovino someone you find it comforting to identify with? Considering you both are easily irritated, anti-social, thinking people…"

Arthur sat at the table, his head in his hands- avoiding Francis' goading. "Maybe Lovino just throws himself into traffic-"

"_Arthur,_ don't divert the conversation- I'm talking with you."

"Francis, we're talking about the possibilities of Lovino's death- _and it's that or nothing __**at all**__ because I __**refuse to talk with you about myself!**__"_

"…And why is that?"

This man…he really didn't stop for anything…prodding other people while revealing nothing about himself—he's good at this… "Maybe he's caught up with an old friend…a _vengeful _old friend…" The Englishman muttered to himself.

"Arthur-"

"-_You wouldn't understand!_ Now shut up and just serve me the damn breakfast!"

"I'm sure I could understand if you tried to communicate about yourself…_why_ would you like breakfast?"

"_Leukemia? _" The green-eyed man continued, his head lost in his composition book with his brows furrowed.

Francis sat down at the table across from him, taking a forkful of omlette into his mouth with a quaint smile. "Hmm-" The blue-eyed man hummed, mocking Arthur's incoherency that he always produced when deep in thought.

Arthur looked up at the sound the Frenchman made across from him- scowling with absolutely no mirth. "Give it to me." He held his hand out, gesturing loosely to the plate Francis held captive next to his own.

"I'm not your child, _ask nicely._"

"**Bugger off**- I'm not begging you for anything-"

"_Yes you are-_ you're asking for a plate of my cuisine…_while_ being hungry and wanting food- _doesn't that make it begging?"_

Arthur's glower stayed intact, fixed with a hard glare and gritted teeth. '_Please give me a plate, Francis._' His tone remained stiff, and very sharp in enunciation, so as to be clear to the Frenchman the first time.

A coy grin slipped onto his face. This _was_ payback- since Francis _did _wake up with a sore tailbone; his elbows and knees were stained with bruises- the couch did nothing to soothe his back either, considering it wasn't very soft...

"_En français, s'il vous plait_…?"

He could see the fire that erupted in those green eyes, his lip even _shaking_ with strain and self-control, and the silence that followed convinced him that it was enough. After all, if he'd gotten the Englishman too mad he would avoid him for the rest of the day... making for a very boring afternoon. He slid the plate across the table with a small nod of contained amusement .

* * *

><p>As Lovino rushed into his apartment, crazed by being so close but so far to Antonio- he went directly to his medicine cabinet, opening it up and searching for the little glass vial contained by a black cap. He took the cap off and dabbed a bit of the gold liquid onto his fingers- placing the strong smelling cologne on his neck to infiltrate his desires. He blushed, relishing in the wildfire that spread up his neck and ears to his face.<p>

The Italian couldn't remember the last time he'd actually _wanted _someone like this, it really was invigorating to re-visit this pure, unrestrained feeling.

Holding onto the vial like it was his lifeline, inhaling it like it was his drug- He let out a shuddering sigh, left hand gripping the counter while his eyelids fluttered. He pursed his lips, swallowed whole by the shivering passion the aroma sparked. He was right, it did smell _exactly_ like Antonio. The little vile livened Lovino's imagination- as though Antonio was _in_ the room, standing directly behind him, heat emanating from his glowing skin as he breathed down Lovino's neck-

_-ping!-_

He gasped pulling away from the counter, falling back into reality as his phone rang. He looked down at himself, embarrassed that his left hand was little ways from his zipper- developing a mind of its own. _Come on, you've only been in a room with the man for 15 minutes! Is it fucking mating season? NO. So, chill out! Goddamned hormones...Since when did I become so horny? I'm not even a teenager! _Lovino compared these bouts of passion to passing out…because his firm willpower seemed to disintegrate into thin air, leaving a completely different person in place of Italian scowled to himself while he placed the vile of cologne on the counter and reached into his pocket for his phone.

'Hey, where are you?'

_Alfred._

He was still in his pajamas too…so he rushed into his closet, throwing on some darker jeans and a light blue suit shirt with some nice-looking casual shoes. And, giving himself one last look in the mirror, he walked out of the door…to see where his life fit in amongst all the tall tales.

* * *

><p>…Yep. I've never written a real story on FanFiction…or written any slightly steamy moments..but it felt right to put Lovino almost orgasming over a smell (BAHAH!) in here..and I sure hope it sounded right to you guys..<p>

Ahh- is it wrong for me to sit here and imagine that they're real people and Antonio really walks like that?

Pssh, even if it was- I would act like they were anyway.

Anyone else enjoy the FrUk antics? I sure hope France didn't sound too snobbish or overly childish..he _is _sophisticated..he just enjoys taunting Arthur as well in my fic..

AUDIENCE, I DON'T OWN HETALIA OR STRANGER THAN FICTION. YES. THAT'S RIGHT, AUDIENCE…I KNOW…IT'S TERRIBLY SAD- AUDIENCE, STOP THROWING OBJECTS AT ME WITH RAGE! Shhhh! Shhhh! There there, audience…yesssss…be a good audience…a nice…gold-star-earning audience..

(That was my impression of Toby Turner…FOR YOU, KROTO! And anyone else who knows Toby Turner)

God, I'm such a victim of A.D.D…. but anyway, thanks for reading and stay tuned, click the annotation in the top-right-hand-corner to the view next link. (When it's here…)

PEACE OFF.

BOOP.

~Gill


	7. An Encounter of Odd Sorts

Lovino had gotten to Mr. Jones' office within 15 minutes of the scheduled time. Not bad, considering how one would usually act in the constant threat of death. And just after the Italian had gotten to the American's office, they went directly into his car- making Lovino wonder why the other man couldn't just pick him up…

He made no sense. It almost seemed like he did things in the least-efficient way possible…because he could, and he'd given the reason that it 'exercised his rights as an American'.

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

So, as Alfred drove through the bustling metropolis- the passenger allowed his mind to wander, his eyes catching the blurring trees as they passed every now and again. But it came to the Italian's attention that Alfred was actually driving _really _fast.

'_Alfred was a man who lived on the edge-'_

Swerving around corners, ducking traffic laws, it was all in a day's work for Alfred. The brunette even agreed with the voice for once…

'_He acted with no limitations, throwing caution to the wind.'_

Alfred couldn't help but laugh when he speeded past a policeman, who had failed to notice him driving through the intersection at the speed of light.

'Looks like they love doughnuts too much for their own good, dude!'

He gave a dry chuckle in return- not really seeing the humor in that stereotype.

'_Laughing in the face of danger while Lovino openly pleaded in front of it.'_

'Hey, that's not true…' Lovino mumbled in protest to the narration.

'_In the dark, Alfred would run through a field covered in bear-traps, laughing flamboyantly- because he did this every day…'_

It was terrifying how easily Lovino could imagine that sight- his arms stretched outwards, twirling in circles on one leg, only an inch from losing his foot…

'_He might've been reckless, Lovino noted, but he knew how to live life…a secret that the Italian had lost and with it, all chances of gaining it back...'_

"No I didn't!"

"What?"

"You shut up, I wasn't talking to you."

"Ahah, I figured you were talking to yourself- psycho."

"Are you done talking yet, ass-hat?"

"Nope! So- anyway…what's the deal with your brother? Mine just started taking classes with another dude. Cooking classes, actually! He's interning, so that means Matt's a little baker now! Isn't that cute? And he met another guy at the place too- I've been told his name is-…Gilbert? Yea, I think so… but...ah-yea and that guy calls Mattie his 'little chef-ette'! I think that's a pretty awesome nickname…and I'm glad that my bro finally found _someone _I mean really…how long can someone go without some ass?"

He gulped in response, not wanting to answer that question. He was _Italian_ of all things…and being a person who hadn't been laid in 3 years was _nothing _compared to being an **Italian** who hadn't gotten _anything _in 3 years..

He really had lost his purpose in life…

* * *

><p>"I don't care! I'm taking it with me!"<p>

"They serve tea there, I'm sure of it-"

"That's not the point! It's not _my_ tea, nobody else's tea is acceptable..."

"Arthur, the second the paper cup hits your hands- full of tea- it's yours…and I'm sure you wouldn't be able to discern the difference."

"Don't tell me what I will and will not taste! I don't sit here and tell you to buy Lobster Bisque from a store around the corner! You make it yourself because you believe it tastes better!"

"Yes, but Lobster Bisque does not compare with tea…"

"**What are you implying? **_In what sense doe_**-**"

Francis walked out the door, grabbing Arthur by the wrist and pulling him behind in fear that he would refuse to go out all-together if he continued wandering into the sensitive topic…

No one really gave Francis the credit he deserved—trying to get a flustered, irritable, social-invert out into the public eye was like getting a burly man from Guantanamo bay to put on make-up _willingly._

And like allowing a child to bring their favorite toy with them while grocery shopping, Francis allowed him his cup of tea. Walking quickly down the street, he hooked his arm into Arthur's tea-laden one, hoping to get to his destination before the man regretted his decision- which was starting to seem more and more like a compromise…

* * *

><p>"Okay! We're here, man!"<p>

Lovino jumped from Alfred's loud exclamation. He was so focused on the narrator's voice it felt like he was in a glass box for a moment.

"I've got a list to discuss with you—so we can talk over some of this guy's delicious brownies…"

Wait…No.

This is…this was—

"_So whilst en-route to Antonio's workplace, he had not even considered where the conversation had connected to a bakery. Had Lovino paid attention, he wouldn't be in this mess."_

"Oh, shut up!" He looked up into the sky yet again, talking to no one.

"Dude. What are you doing?" Alfred looked up to see what he was shouting about, still pushing him forward with his hand. "Yelling at a bird? All they do is sing and fly you know…that's taking away half of their life…and flying all the time would get boring."

"**Stop rambling! **Do you understand how _annoy-_** don't touch me! **" He whipped around to face the American, running into someone else in the process.

"Oi!" An unfamiliar voice called out

"…" Lovino looked over his shoulder and stopped talking completely. Alfred observed the man Lovino had just struck, moreover, noted that Lovino had knocked the man's cup of tea onto his shirt.

"**What's your problem, huh? What, are you drunk at three in the afternoon! **_I just—_"

The words died in Arthur's throat as his green eyes left his shirt, to gawk at the Italian before him. The _very familiar _Italian…

Lovino's brows knitted together, trying to discern why this man happened to stick out in his memory. Whilst sharing the eye-contact, he was also trying to uncover why the man was just as captivated as him.

Francis felt himself sinking in the uncomfortable staring contest and tried to smooth it over and move on to their destination. "It's okay- …We understand- Just…watch where you're going next time."

"Yea…" Lovino mumbled, awestruck. _This man's voice…he'd just heard it…and it was only a few words…but it was so familiar…_

It was the writer in the park, standing before him- but now he wasn't mumbling to himself and gaping into his soul with an empty, riveted stare. The green-eyed man appeared much more attentive, irritable even.

"Yes, we're really sorry about that- he never knows where to walk…directionally challenged…" Alfred stammered on, trying to pick up on Lovino's failure of an apology. The American took another moment to closely study Francis, watching his lip crumple in discomfort whenever he looked at the man next to him.

If anything, Francis and Alfred had made some sort of connection through watching Lovino and Arthur's impromptu staring contest, both dwelling in the awkward remnants of a conversation. It seemed like the Frenchman had given up in trying to find Arthur- because judging by the gleam in those green eyes, he was long lost in Wonderland.

"Well, It's fine...I think that we'll be on our way…Right, Arthur?"

Francis waved his hand in front of the author's face- not receiving a response. The man's features hung on his face, clueless and transfixed.

"Mr. Kirklaaand?" He trailed on in a monotonous, bored tone. He narrowed his eyes and leaned into Arthur's personal space- his lips pressing against the Englishman's ear whilst whispering messily. "If you don't blink I'm going to lick your face."

Green eyes blinked, giving proof of conscious thought, and recognition of the dire situation. All at once, a rush of color flooded into Arthur's puffed cheeks at the contact, giving him goose bumps and making him fidget. "_Francis_…**I'm coherent!** Just keep your disgusting orifice away from me!" The writer forced himself a few steps away from Francis in order to ease his nervousness.

"Yes, well…we'll be on our way then…have a nice day." Francis gave a nod and started to pull Arthur along in a seemingly gentle hold. It really was comical- watching the incredulous Englishman leaping up and down, yanking himself away and trying to free himself from Francis' grip as the man continued walking, carrying on as if everything was normal.

But, this really was a normal thing on Francis' schedule… Outbursts of this sort happened like clockwork around the Englishman.

Alfred turned back from the odd scene to face Lovino, now coming back from his stupor. The brunette's face had loosened up, but he still said nothing…Alfred had never seen his head tilt that far sideways either. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides, unsure of what to do with the encounter he just had.

_Should I be scared? Excited? Angry? Is the voice I hear even a real guy? Am I really schizophrenic? Why would this man's voice be in my brain? How? Why did that other guy __**kiss **__the other man's face?_

"Hey, anyway—we should go inside! I really want to get through these questions."

Alfred was running Lovino through a mental field day, just facing the reason why he may or may not be schizophrenic was enough for him to deal with. Now he gets to sit within 10 feet of the man who he can barely _smell_ without his thoughts and blood going south…

* * *

><p>"Before you ask, we're not going back home because I know you'll lock yourself in again." Francis stated boldly.<p>

"Whoever said that I'd do such a thing?"

"My instinct- rather, an ebbing notion that you would-"

"_Oh_- So now you're some sort of majestic wild animal? **Your instinct?** Is that what helps you with the women? **The ones that wince at your mere presence?**"

Arthur was facing internal panic and his cheeks were still flushed, now with a concoction of embarrassment and anger. His bright, consecutive feelings had all blended into a primitive olive green- creating this strange emotion that he didn't know what to do with.

"Either way, we're not going home. Not yet…"

"What do you propose I do then, hm?" He gestured stiffly to his now-stained crisp white dress shirt. Francis rolled his eyes, pulling off his light grey T-shirt, remaining in a white tank top. Arthur stared at the offering like someone had just suggested he sit in an electric chair, permanently sealing his fate.

"Oh, _bloody hell. _Francis, put your damn shirt back on! I absolutely refuse to wear that! And it reeks of you!"

"So? I don't see what's so troublesome about being engulfed by the scent of a delicious Frenchman…Would you rather be shirtless?"

"_Don't be ridiculous_…That is the worst id-"

"Then put it on."

"But…but that's like me indirectly touching your body! That's **me** practically getting _hugged _by you! Because you wore this shirt- and now it's touching me! I don't understand why we can't just-"

"You brought your tea with you, had a few sips- it's gone now. I'm not going back home, and you're going to put this shirt on and calm down, _oui?_"

Arthur stopped walking all together, forcing Francis to halt and turn around to see what the Englishman was ready to rant about now. Francis observed Arthur's immature, stubborn pout complete with his hands curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders puffed up.

This whole façade of dominance did not succeed in convincing Francis- due to the tea-stain on the writer's shirt. But he accepted Arthur's challenge with a toothy grin, taking 3 large strides to get close to the man.

A stare down was initiated, a battle of the wills…eyes gradually narrowing to slits between the both of them. Francis' baby-blue eyes took on a harsher, ice-like sheen staring back into the fierce green sea of Arthur's depths. The Englishman's lip seeming to sag with such gravity that you'd think that it was the sole thing holding people on the earth..

But after a good minute and a half Arthur stiffly grabbed the shirt from Francis' hand, his intent glare never breaking.

"Fine. But I'm not staying any longer than 30 minutes out here. And if you try to extend that time, so help me, I will walk home myself, you sodding frog."

"Fair enough." Maybe if he'd gotten Arthur angry enough, he would think of some vengeful, creative way to kill his character. _That's still helping, right? Because that assists in forming ideas…_

Francis walked further down the road they came, Arthur trailing behind as the Frenchman cut across the end of the street to another small coffee shop on another sidewalk. It didn't look very promising, but Francis didn't want to waste any more of Arthur's 'outside time'.

He was really hoping he'd get to visit Antonio at his shop today, too…because they hadn't talked in a while. But maybe another day… he had an ebbing notion that Arthur would do something to ruin a relaxing encounter anyway. So maybe things had really worked out for the best.

* * *

><p>"What would you like, hm?"<p>

"Umm-...a sugar cookie would be nice…"

"Okay, just a second-" Lovino watched the brunette curls disappear as Antonio grabbed a treat from the display case, re-appearing with a simple cookie decorated with white and yellow polka dots. He lifted his arm over the glass to hand it to Lovino.

"Actually…" The Spaniard's eyebrows rose, self-consciousness setting in. "Can I have the one with the…tomato… on it?" Antonio's head cocked to the side with a light giggle just before he looked below again for another desert.

"Sure…I don't see why not." He reached back into the showcase and pulled out the tomato-adorned sweet.

"Here you go…" Antonio reached back over again, sharing a glorious smile while passing off the creation to Lovino.

"Thanks…again."

"Yes, no problem! Is there anything else you'd like?" He clasped his flour-covered hands together, looking between Alfred and Lovino, awaiting a response.

Alfred spoke up: "Uhmm- yea…Can I get 3 chocolate chip cookies, a cinnamon roll, 2 brownies, a cannoli, two of those long stick-pretzel-things-…yea those…oh! And a caramel apple?"

"Ahaha, wow- Yes... that's fine. Just…give me a second-" Antonio trailed off, and scurried between different sections of the store, retrieving the 'light snacks' Alfred had requested. On his way back to the register, the baker caught Lovino's shocked and disgusted expression pointed at Alfred and a grin erupted on his face. A snicker even escaped him on accident.

That brought Lovino's attention to Antonio, and the Spaniard looked down directly after- not wanting to make the Italian feel threatened like last time. He placed a paper bag on the counter and started placing Alfred's many treats inside. Once finished, the blonde picked the bag off the counter, having already paid and starting out the door, leaving Lovino and Antonio in the comfortable murmur of the bakery.

The Italian stared at the door, praying that Alfred would wait patiently and not honk while he was still in the shop. He looked down at his tomato cookie, taking another bite of its deliciousness.

"So…" The baker slouched, leaning into his elbows on the counter, head resting in his hands. Lovino looked back to Antonio, not really caring about Alfred anymore… The Spaniard had a smug grin; even though his eyes maintained the same light, innocent expression, the smirk gave Antonio a completely different vibe- a hint of the more dangerous, mature being underneath. "Tell me Mr. Vargas…Am I being _stalked?_"

Lovino could feel his cheeks prickling with heat, ready to scream with embarrassment and his eyes went wide and mirrored that of a frightened child, mouth coming unhinged in a fantastic display of no composure what-so-ever.

Antonio smiled to himself, bathing in the pride of making Lovino speechless."…It's okay…I was just wondering…_Really_- I'm flattered, Mr. Vargas." Antonio pulled himself up from the counter standing at his full height while staring at Lovino intently, a sardonic grin playing on his features. Lovino was only processing Antonio's eyes and his pummeling heart, punching his ribs mercilessly. The Spaniard leaned further over the counter, inches away and continuing to taunt the other brunette.

"Have a_ wonderful_ day…" He uttered in a whisper so smooth and warm- the air from his speech tickling Lovino's lips, leaving him melting into the floor.

"…thanks- t-to you too." He said whilst starting to pull away from the counter, not really sure what to talk about now…

"Okay, so…Lovino." The American's puff of blonde hair poked through the door.

"Hw-what?" The Italian pivoted towards Alfred roughly, waiting for the question. Alfred stared back at Antonio, questioning his expression and then, in a moment of comprehension, he started to edge back out the door.

"Ah…oh, _okay…_I'll—talk to you at another time…eheh."

And with that, the American single-handedly destroyed the delicate, carefully crafted mood.

Lovino slammed his hand on the counter- his expression unchanging, while Antonio gave the movement a quick glance and continued to smile."Ahmm…I'm…I'm gonna- just go...follow him. Sorry, bye."

He took brisk strides away from the counter until he shoved himself into the door and out onto the street. Noticing that Alfred's car was nowhere to be seen and he couldn't be heard laughing anywhere in the area, he heaved a sigh and started his walk home.

* * *

><p>They say the smell of coffee clears the mind and crisps the thoughts. It's also said to get rid of other smells that may have been snagged onto our senses. But not this one- Francis wasn't a smell; he was a bold, intriguing presence- one that happened to come with a very strong smell that could not be erased by even that of strong coffee.<p>

Arthur sat in the corner- an angry little ray of unhappiness, glaring with disgust at his stand-in cup of tea. In a place he didn't want to be, in this place was a man he didn't want to be with, and the light of his life- his saving grace, his tea- was gone… Miles away, sitting in a lonely cabinet. And with every adjustment of himself in the café chair- Francis invaded his nose, the fabric breathed of the blue-eyed man. In an odd form, it was sort of enjoyable; he wafted of old theatres and pastries, and an afterthought of wine. Like the embodiment of Paris itself.

Francis stayed at the register, talking quietly to barista and enjoying the sight of Arthur- sticking out like a sore thumb. In fact, his shirt on the blonde made the man look 5 years younger, almost like a 9 year old who went through his father's closet and tried on a few things. It fit the author's expression to a tee- because this past week he had really been acting like one.

His writer's block must really be getting to him, maybe there were more things to be done that could open the author's mind…

* * *

><p>My apologies to all who waited…I've been very busy and uninspired the past couple of days…<p>

…but I've been cooking up a storm!

(Because I cook when I'm upset…)

I made Palmiers, Lobster Bisque, Chai Cupcakes (Oh my god), some Biscuits that taste just like the ones from Red Lobster (and now I'll never go there again), Florentines, Almond Cookies, a new take on pasta (also amazing), and blueberry muffins.

And I've wanted to make some butternut squash bisque…but I haven't gotten around to it just yet.

But now I'm up to my ears in food and there's no way I'll eat it all because I plan on keeping my figure slim… *sigh*

So now: I invite lots of company over for the next few days!

*takes bite of apple*

Also! I was wondering if this kind of viewpoint is confusing? Like, going back and forth between Lovino's life and Arthurs? Yes or No? Should I do it less often?

And as much as I don't intend to- I always end up writing Arthur as something short of a spoiled 6-year old….because, in my brain, sometimes he acts like that- for example: when it comes to his tea, and his alone-time…which Francis is messing with ruthlessly…

OTL Ahahaa, see ya!

~Gill

P.S. Message me if you wanted any of those recipes mentioned, they're all equally awesome though…

Aaaaand the rating may or may not go up next chapter…we'll see ;) (Don't get your hopes up because then I'll feel guilty for disappointing you...)

Have a nice day!


	8. Fortune Cookies Aren't Innocent

Well- here's another chapter! And it's a bit longer….but that's okay, right?

Enjoy~

* * *

><p>"Arthur, would you mind if we had take-away for dinner tonight?" Francis trailed down the street, on his way home from the coffee shop with Arthur.<p>

"…Fine. But if you do, you're cooking tomorrow."

"Ahah, have you developed a preference for my food?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you implied that you would rather eat my dishes than a restaurant's …"

"No I wouldn't! I simply don't wish to become an obese American!"

"Ah yes, of course. And here I have to deal with this constant denial of yours…"

* * *

><p>So Alfred had rescheduled his questions…obviously not as concerned as he'd let off about Lovino.<p>

And, deciding he'd had enough adventure today; the Italian chose to stay settled in his house for the evening- cooking a wonderful dinner of homemade tomato soup. He even dug out his softest blanket, now tucked in the couch with it and his soup, ready to push play on his remote and watch his favorite movie.

He stared at the motionless screen of the TV- the bowl's heat radiating up to his chin, while he remained in thought. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening…he'd even picked out the best pajama pants he could find in his wardrobe and dabbed on some cologne from the vial to ease that incessant craving of the Spaniard.

The brunette exhaled forcefully, blinking and readying himself for the film that started to play before him. A spoonful of tomato soup found its way to Lovino's mouth- letting him become drenched in the wonderful scent of the fruit, and soon after mingling with it was green-eyed man himself, threading his fingers through Lovino's hair slowly…

_Oh, yes…_

Lovino's head had sagged sideways, almost resting on his shoulder while he allowed his mind to continue its pleasurable wanderings. He took deeper breaths in an attempt to slow his clamoring heart rate. The gentle murmuring of the TV only served as a way to immerse himself in this dream… Why did his favorite movie happen to be in Spanish?

This wasn't enough…the language of Spain was nice…but only when spoken from Antonio himself. There was a certain way he rolled his 'r's that was different from most…almost like he had a special tongue to make better trills.

_A special tongue…_

Lovino gulped, sitting up abruptly and ruining his heaven-like arrangement. He placed his bowl on the coffee table in front of him and walked out of the room, not even bothering to fulfill his craving for food.

There was a stronger hunger that Lovino had- and it dominated his every thought….right down to his love of Tomatoes.

_Antonio._

But where would he be? Lovino _had_ followed Antonio a little, but he didn't know where the man lived… Of course, if Lovino could do anything he wanted with the power of knowing he wouldn't be caught, he would immediately locate Antonio's house, no doubt about it.

"_Lovino had no other option than to visit 'La Tomate Dulce' and hope that fate would leave Antonio standing there in front of the doorway, just closing up shop."_

It was already 7 PM, and everything closed early before Fridays. So with a heaving sigh, Lovino sat back down on the couch- completely miserable and unsure of what to do next. Everything that had seemed fulfilling in life was nothing compared to the Spaniard. Lovino slid onto his side, lying down on the couch with a nearby pillow.

Maybe a nap would clear his thoughts. And over time, his heart-rate slowed while his breathing evened out…and just as bits of clouds and incoherency were surrounding his brain, it was all interrupted by the Italian's watch- still wrapped on his left arm. Once again, the wristwatch had lit up and beeped restlessly- every button Lovino pushed seemed to only make the sound louder. Exasperated, the Italian slapped it with the palm of his hand and, seeing no end to it- gave up, letting his arm dangle off of the couch.

It didn't appear like it was going to stop anytime soon either.

"_If one thing was clear…"_

The brunette looked up at the ceiling, shrugging hopelessly and dragging his feet off of the couch to sit up.

"_It was that Lovino needed to visit the café this instant."_

And the second he stood from the furniture- the watch stopped its noise. Lovino stared at his accessory for a moment, perplexed by its timing. Then, out of pure curiosity, he sat back down again- and the alarm resumed, right on cue.

"Huh."

His watch, this voice, and his heart were the only things directing his life now- And so far, the voice had proved extremely pessimistic and downright strange, calling from nowhere. The watch wasn't much more normal than the voice- how was it supposed to know when he sat down? And his heart…had been very confused as of late…moving in all directions at once.

Lovino fiddled with his belt buckle of his jeans, leaving his faded red (Definitely not pink, salmon, or coral) shirt on from earlier. Clouds were rolling in over the city's skyline, almost urging Lovino to get inside before they released the rain.

Each raindrop equated to a step from Lovino, which meant a step closer to Antonio…if he was there. There was a driving force in the wristwatch that told him to try. He had to try…because if he was to die in the next few days, not seeing Antonio would be the biggest regret.

"_Lovino loved this man…he didn't know him- but he knew the feeling of love. And that was enough for the man to make an effort."_

The Italian broke into a jog, calling upon his speed to see the Spaniard on time. And as he did, droplets fell onto brown hair and a metropolis with increasingly faster speed. The whole setting drooped in a bland display of greys and army greens as the Italian dashed around corners and through alleyways to save time. But once he reached another sidewalk of a familiar intersection, he stopped- gasping for air while thoroughly drenched by the rain.

From the opposite side of the street, the biggest window of Antonio's bakery greeted Lovino's eyes. And inside the window, there was a man. Sweeping the floor- his green eyes trained on the dust and trash. He wore a calm smile, one so content and drastically different from the weather outside that Lovino now stood in.

It represented something more than a nice bakery…it was Lovino's solace, his key to life…and maybe this voice planned on killing him once he found a way to live again…but at least he knew what the key was. He dragged his wet form across the street, walking right up to the window and quietly observing the Spaniard through the glass covered in water droplets.

"_Lovino loved this man."_ The voice repeated.

"Yea…" The brunette whispered hoarsely, straining to keep his emotions under control.

The baker was a mere 5 feet away from him- separated by a wall of cobblestone. Antonio must have had music playing inside- because he moved so smoothly, as though he was in control of every inch of himself. His arms and neck synchronized with hips and feet perfectly while he swung along to mute sound.

The black apron couldn't keep up with Antonio's quickstep, swishing lazily on the after-beats…And when he stepped into the light, it seemed to ignite his hair to more of a caramel, almost like Veneciano's hair. A meek, gentle smile stayed in place while his broom lightly traced the dirt off the floor. The window was Lovino's looking-glass. The way people acted when they thought no one was watching was their real persona underneath it all, right?

So this was it. This was Antonio.

This would be the closest he'd ever be to a wonderful man who'd welcomed him and his stalking, ranting, impulsive ways. Lovino sighed and rested his nose on the window- feeling the vibration of the music from the bakery in himself. His eyes remained open, cherishing everything he could…he just wanted to touch Antonio- to give him a hug…or mutter his confession of love into the brunette's ear.

It was an unexplainable bond; The Italian didn't even dare to wonder why.

Because life was cheap, trying to justify everything you felt instead of just allowing it to be there. All of the rich feelings one could experience got smothered in logic, tarnished and poisoned by the world around them. That's exactly what had happened to Lovino too…and he realized that now.

* * *

><p>"The moment where things are clearest…<em>his realization<em>…he sees what he needs to make right- just before he…dies?" Arthur muttered to himself- tucked away in Francis' bed while trying to record all of the things his brain was rambling about. He put the writing utensil onto the pad, trying to dispense the idea.

"A loud rumble of thunder filled the air…alluding what was to come for the man. The Italian's fingers remained on the shaking glass, only a few feet from Antonio. Unfortunately, there was also a lamppost nearby- begging the storm to strike it. A fateful green lamppost that, with a flash of lightning, left Lovino-"

"ARTHUR!"

"What!"

"Come out here please…"

"No! I'm busy!"

He placed his pen back on the paper, starting to trace a letter in the shape of a "D".

"….Don't be a child!"

Green eyes rolled in sarcasm, also disappointed in hearing that terrible comeback from Francis. He could've done better than that. "What do you need?"

"Just...it's difficult to explain.."

The writer's brain de-railed into all the things Francis could possibly be asking him to help him with…

'_ARTHUR I STUBBED MY TOE, WILL YOU TELL YOUR MAGICAL FAIRYS TO FIX IT?'_

'_ARTHUR, I SWALLOWED A BIT OF YOUR FOOD! I CANNOT EVEN BEAR TO MOVE, PLEASE…GET ME A CROISSANT! __**PLEASE!**__'_

'_OH, ARTHUR! I'VE BEEN SMOTHERED IN WHIPPED CREAM! SAVE ME! LICK IT OFF!'_

His features spiked a bit in shock with that last possibility… did he _really_ just think of that? If his brain kept that up then he'd have to stop calling Francis the pervert…that wouldn't be too good for his pride.

The Englishman's vision went back to his paper, but his mind refused to go follow. Seeing how his subconscious was intent on helping the stupid man, Arthur slid out of the bed and into the hallway.

He neared the kitchen, and he was not expecting Francis -who was facing the counter- to be fully clothed (_Thank God…_) and unmoving. But he was.

What kind of stupid joke was this?

"Ah, there you are- would you please help me with this?" He gestured to the counter below.

"With _what_, now?..." Francis responded to him by pointing below his waist again, directly in front of the dishwasher. "I most certainly will **not!**"

"…Arthur…I know what you're thinking- But I'm talking about the dishwasher."

"Why are you standing so close to it then?"

"Because I am stuck."

"**What's stuck?**" His throat was burning, about to close up and deprive Arthur's brain of much-needed oxygen. The writer's eyebrows were raised so high that he thought they might stay on his hairline.

"Ahah, my…my apron is stuck…in the door- of the dishwasher. Nothing more than that…"

"Oh."

"Why would _that _even be a possibility!" Francis had picked up on his thoughts.

"Have you tried pulling it out?" The writer attempted to ignore the vague lewdness of his own statement.

"Yes—It's stuck right in the grip of the door, where the thing locks, you know?" The cook pulled lightly on it, not wanting to show too much strain over an apron…it was just a piece of cloth after all.

"You're just not pulling hard enough!"

"**Yes I am**, Arthur! You try!" The shorter man walked closer to Francis, placing his hands on either side of the red-and-white patterned fabric and tugging on it. "Oh, the damn thing _had_ to get stuck right where the door clasped together…" Francis sulked, becoming frustrated with the lack of efficiency.

'_How does he even manage to do this?' _ The author asked himself, not seeing the apron budge an inch…the door wouldn't open either because of the cotton wedged inside it.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" This was something only Francis would do. Why didn't he expect something like this in the first place?

"Yes, but until you finish that book, I'm your idiot."

"_How consoling_…_I could never make it without you_…"

"Ahaha…_really_, Arthur- just…fix it?"

In response, he gripped a paring knife off the counter and unceremoniously sliced the fabric where it was most strained. And with hearing this, Francis looked down on the man, incredulous and shocked.

"WHA- ARTHUR! YOU- WHY DID YOU?"

"I fixed it."

His mouth remained wide open, allowing dark blonde brows to furrow in anger."…You owe me a new apron, bâtard- I mean, was that _really necessary! _ Matthew always wore it when he came over too! Now wha-"

"Hey, I don't want to see your pedophile business with what's-his-name…just keep it to yourself. I'm going to write."

"What, you're not going to eat any dinner?"

"No."

"But surely you can put aside work for a little bit and eat?"

"I don't write because I want to…Writing isn't a hobby; it's a suffocating impulse- Nothing could prevent me from it...even if I wanted to stop-"

"Maybe you'll get a good idea once you aren't searching for one?"

"You're the assistant! You're supposed to be helping me search! Do you even believe in the purpose of your job?"

"Well, no I don't. Not in your case, Arthur…You're clever enough to come up with _something_…and this "idea-searching" is not what you need to be inspired. It is a talent of yours to draw ideas from seemingly nothing."

Checkmate. Some good old-fashioned flattery had done the trick. Arthur grimaced and walked into the living room, sitting down on the couch and turning on the television.

"So we're going to watch TV and eat?" Francis spoke up, talking to the Englishman from the other room. Picking up the food and strolling towards Arthur, he offered the box of Chinese cuisine to the writer.

Arthur glanced at it and decidedly snatched it away with his hand, readily accepting the chopsticks with it afterwards.

* * *

><p>Small tears joined the raindrops that scattered on Lovino's face, carrying all his remorse with them.<p>

Antonio just looked so perfect, so happy and perfect. The Italian lifted his hand up to the window, placing his palm on the glass with fingers barely touching the pane. The action had produced a dull sound, but the baker hadn't flinched and that led him to believe that the noise wasn't loud enough.

Lovino exuded a weak sniffle, his vision sinking down to his feet while he rolled his weight to his forehead on the window.

"_Lovino had already died 3 years ago…when he fell into a schedule that never changed, never seizing an opportunity or embracing any emotion other than boredom._"

Regret was one of the worst feelings of all. It was also Lovino's biggest fear, and something his whole heart ached of at the moment.

"_I'm sorry…_" A muffled whimper escaped Lovino in a voice cracking from sorrow and misery. His fingers curled up on the window, leaving a reluctant fist of withdrawal in its place.

_-tap tap tap- _

Olive eyes dragged up to the windowsill, and continuing their steady ascent, landed on the eyes of another man. The peculiar familiarity was hidden in them. Lovino allowed his tears to flow freely, displaying his heavy heart to this man, longing for understanding from Antonio.

The baker's tawny skin glowed from the light streaming from the ceiling indoors. And upon surveying Lovino further, he donned astonished eyes and a sobering straight lip. Antonio looked with such urgency and interest- and all the Italian could offer him was a meager smile…a very hopeless raise of his lip. The dripping man grimaced as he watched tan lips speak his name, even though the sound didn't reach him. And all too soon, the Spaniard was gone from the window.

He could hear footsteps- he could feel the warmth of strong hands on his shoulders, the feather-light tickles on his left cheek from scrapes of the other brunette's hair. And most importantly…inside, he felt a sign of life, a flutter inside the coffin of his heart.

The man started to walk backwards, allowing Lovino to remain locked in his muscle-bound arms while he silently invited Lovino into his bakery. The formal jingle of the door signaled their entry. And the baker's lithe hands directed the drenched man to a nearby chair.

"I'll be right back, stay there please." He disappeared around a corner, a few of his unruly curls bouncing with his steps.

"Yea..." He voiced under his breath, sinking into the plush chair and opening an ear to appreciate the music dancing in the air. It was sophisticated and calm, though it could be deemed as sultry, depending on the setting. Which at the moment included small amounts of lights scattered about from above, giving the area an intimate glow- a nice, comforting place to be with only Antonio.

Another song broadcasted over the store…enveloping it in an entirely different mood. Lovino was urged by the beat to drum his fingers on the armchair- copying its addicting, flawless ways. And the harmony was one that provided a dressed-down allure, something short of lust in the rubble of the jazz tones.

A dizzy piano spoke to him in a melody of hazy chimes, painting quick, wistful brushstrokes of purple and deep shades of indigo. It was soon joined by a heavy, deliberately slow bass- allowing one to truly get lost in the harmony. And if you were listening close enough, you could see the hypnotic, near-transparent flickers of lust displayed in the shadows. A scattered high-hat then joined the scene, precise and clear in its execution of a new beat as it bit through the piano's sultry lullaby.

It was perfect dancing music- the embodiment of _La Tomate Dulce _and its owner. An interesting concoction of sex and class- all masked over by a seemingly harmless upbeat. It sounded just like Mr. Carriedo …

The baker re-appeared and continued walking towards the damp Italian."Ah, okay- I'm sorry that took a bit…I wanted to find a soft enough towel for…-"

Antonio would be lying if he said Lovino didn't look breathtaking- regardless of the common idea that when people cry they look their worst. It would be wrong to say the straight locks of dark hair plastered to the man's forehead, the little traces of water and tears- weren't anything special. It was apparent that the Italian was so full of raw emotion; A living, breathing, melting pot of feelings sitting before him.

It was refreshing to meet someone who held an expression other than mediocre happiness all the time. Antonio observed his odd posture in the chair, sitting up with extreme poise that was contradictory to the perplexed and tired look on his face. Lovino's chest rose and fell in time with the songs' own pulse- taking in air through his hanging mouth. The music he'd put on while cleaning after work happened to be a bit darker… he liked the Bossa Nova sound with a bit of a tango kick…something worth shaking hips to. He approached the olive-eyed man, offering the plush towel to him.

"Hm? Oh... thanks."

Lovino readily accepted the cloth and wiped off any exposed areas of skin he could- his clothes were still sopping wet though. It felt like being a wet cat covered in saran-wrap. A very unhappy, drenched cat.

"…Would you like something to drink, Mr. Vargas?"

"Lovino."

"I'm sorry?"

"My name is Lovino- don't call me that...because if you say "Mr." one more time I'll severely injure you- I don't want to be some random formal acquaintance."

"Ah—okay…Lovino…" The Spaniard tried out the new name on his tongue- memorizing how it felt and enunciating the strong consonants and the flowing vowels. After taking a moment in thought, he fell into a fit of mumbling- experimenting with different accents on syllables. "Lo**vi**no…**Lo**vi**no**…**Lovi**no-

"Can you stop doing that?"

"Oh, yes…sorry. So, nothing to drink then, Lo_vii_no?"

It appeared that Antonio refused to let the name carelessly fall from his lips…Like he didn't agree with the polished, seamless label of this prickly Italian man.

"No…I'm fine- thank you." It was humorous to Lovino…adding to his list another odd quirk about the man.

"Ahah, okay…I would offer you some clothes…but I don't have any here at the bakery…"

He sat on the coffee table just across from Lovino, resting his elbows on his knees.

"That's okay…"

"Well, not really- because you'll catch a cold. Speaking of which, are you okay?"

"Yea…"

"I don't think so. I mean…you looked so upset out there…why would you stand outside in the middle of a thunderstorm ?"

"I…I don't know-" Lovino continued to respond in mumbles…unsure of how to go about the topic of his feelings for Antonio or his current situation with hearing a narrator.

"What's been bothering you then?

"I…" Lovino looked down to his feet, frowning and contemplating if it would really be that bad to tell Antonio. It probably wouldn't…and if the man didn't take it well he would throw him out. But earlier in the day Antonio wasn't bothered at all about Lovino's large amount of hidden attention. So what would make the Spaniard shy away now? He _provoked _the Italian! Leaning over the counter and blowing on his face before he left, who does that and expects nothing in return! "You…"

It was so difficult to say nothing when Antonio's wonder and need to help was displayed so prominently on his face. "I…what-" He motivated Lovino to complete the sentence.

"I like you- a lot more than I should -but I do anyway." He said in a quick rush of air, some of it being incomprehensible- but the Italian hoped he wouldn't have to repeat anything.

But with Lovino's sudden confession, Antonio pulled himself straight up and looked deep into olive eyes, puckering his mouth and lifting his eyebrows heaven-ward.

"Lovino…"

He stayed that way for a gruesome 10 seconds, seemingly the longest ten seconds in the Italian's life. '_Oh fuck, I shouldn't have said it. I'm just going to leave- I'm not coming back…No worries here, I can just go get mauled by a truck happily now—is he smiling? Why's he smiling?'_

"…that's okay. And I think you're a really unique person- from what I've seen of you…but-"

The Italian winced, just wanting to get this odd encounter over with.

"I'd like to know you more."

'_What?'_

"I…I think I like you as more than a friend too... If that's okay with you?_"_

An invisible force was shoving the Italian's features into a shy smile, even though his mind was blank and his heart was pounding.

"Yea…Umm- …It's more than okay…I-"

"So how about you come with me and I can get you a change of clothes and I can make you a real dinner?"

"What's with the sudden friendliness? I don't-"

"You want to know me…I want to learn about you too…so let's go!"

"Ah, …I guess it's oka-"

"Great! Come on!" Antonio grabbed the lighter man's hand- pulling him behind the counter a bit too fast and slinging off his apron quicker than imaginable. Lovino got a view of the workspace, weaving in and out of different tables and pieces of equipment until they left out the back door. Antonio broke out in a light jog towards his black car, still pulling his new friend behind.

Clicking the car door open and sliding into the seat in one fluent movement, Antonio started the ignition- leaving Lovino gawking in front of the open passenger door.

"Okay… Let's go Lovino~"

"Why-? Antonio- "

"Don't worry, I'm a safe driver! Really!"

"…"

It was amazing how fast Antonio could go from being so serious and honest to this…this upbeat, giggling personality.

And even though Lovino acted shocked, he wasn't inside- because he'd had this exact dream many times, right down to the words spoken between them. Except this wasn't a dream or practice…it was real. That fact alone made Lovino feel a little less weighted-down, less alone, and brighter than he'd even been.

* * *

><p>The two men were settled on the couch…eating their Chinese take-out and talking about anything they deemed interesting when TV commercials allowed them to…<p>

"So I've been reading a book recently" Francis started while carrying the chopsticks to his mouth.

"Ah! _Good for you Francis!_ Learning how to read…"

"Thanks—but the book itself is a very good one." He countered with sarcasm of his own.

"Hmmn.." Arthur hummed, preoccupied with his food and the television before them.

"It's about English People."

"Is it now?" Francis grew irritated- no one should patronize him…and definitely not Arthur of all people.

"And would you believe – the book talked about how the English were the _real _perverts and they pinned the name on the French. And other things like how French kisses were referred to as English kisses when in France.."

"T-that's absurd!" A large sum of noodles fell from his chopsticks back into the container below.

"But what about earlier today, while we were flipping through the channels and we saw a quick where the woman slapped her husband and then you started building a pillow-fort over your crotch?"

"**I did no such thing!**"

"_Oh!_ That is the lie of the century! I'm absolutely positive-"

"NO! You're not! So just shut up! Stop your gibberish!" Arthur got up stiffly and marched out of the room, his heavy steps resonating throughout Francis' house.

"What are you doing?"

"….grabbing fortune cookies." The Englishman muttered quietly in response, not seeing the point in being angry any further…because if he did, Francis may have valid proof of Arthur's actions. It appeared that Arthur was slowly becoming more accepting of Francis behavior…or, if anything, he'd grown more used to it. Or the man's southbound thoughts were starting to leak into his own cerebral cortex.

"Grab me one?"

The author shuffled back into the room, wordlessly shoving the treat into Francis' hand, and sitting back down next to the other blonde.

And as Arthur took off the plastic wrapper and the cookie was a mere centimeter away from his mouth, Francis interrupted,

"You have to say 'in bed' at the end of your fortune…no matter what."

"Very well…" He gave a smirk in return, not about to back down to this silly game of Francis'. The fortunes wouldn't make sense with that weird suffix anyway… So the green-eyed man broke the cookie exactly in half, pulling the paper out and eating the whole treat first- slowly, just to mess with the other man. And once he had finished enjoying the light desert, he held the small paper up to eye-level and read the words:

"Passion is in all great searches and is necessary to all creative endeavors….in bed…"

"You see? Every time…it's always a dirty thing with these…" Francis snorted and started to open his own.

"Well, I don't necessarily view that as dirty…even with the 'in bed' thing…"

"Oh? That's really not suggestive at all?"

"No, it's plenty suggestive…It's just not…dirty…" Arthur said, forgetting his pride for the time being and being realistic with the blue-eyed man.

"So _you_- uptight, snappy Arthur Kirkland know what dirty is?"

"Of course I do! What would make you think I didn't!"

Francis wouldn't question his skills in the bedroom, at least, he shouldn't. A small smile was starting to ebb onto said Frenchman's features, anticipating the result of the verbal sparring Arthur just initiated.

"I don't know- maybe it's just the impression I got…"

"First impressions aren't always right." The Englishman stood up with his arms crossed, looking down on Francis in a weak display of superiority- it wasn't easy to dominate people who were taller than you.

"I'd assumed that this was one of those cases where the impression _was _right."

"Well you're wrong." Arthur bent over to grimace directly into Francis' eyes. The Frenchman's pools reflected only amusement… and so his scowl drooped into a serious squint whilst trying to wear down the man's morale.

Still staring at each other but not moving away, Arthur and Francis shared the moment of quiet. The writer's mouth parted slightly in a timid show of boredom, practically breathing onto the Frenchman with every exhale. Arthur's puffs of air stuck to the Frenchman's lips- the warmth and the humidity in the man's breath was surprising.

He smelled lightly of newspaper, tea, and…lemons… a peculiar smell…considering Arthur himself was, in fact, bitter about many things. Lemons were such a crisp smelling fruit- something that almost all cleaning products swore by in their scents. But the fruit was also a very sultry piece of literature amongst internet forums…

The other blonde quirked a brow at Arthur, noting that his eyes hadn't left his lips for a few seconds now. And if Francis didn't know any better, it seemed like those green eyes were studying him with wanting…maybe the Englishman wasn't as prude as he'd let off…maybe Francis' book was right?

What Arthur didn't understand was why his heart was leaping into his throat, leaving it feeling so sore and tight- he didn't want to swallow. His lips steadily developed a numb, tingling feeling- only allowing his eyes to narrow because he truly was confused about the waves coursing through him.

Emerald eyes moved back up to Francis' own, establishing a silent sort of connection- a powerful one. One that had them moving closer to each other, leaving the tips of their noses touching. All the while, a less-than-innocent pink started to prickle Arthur's cheeks, still breathing out of his mouth.

His face had slipped out of a grumpy expression, now one of hazy discernment. Ten seconds ticked passed while Arthur did not blink, the only thing that changed was the Englishman's breathing- it had subtly quickened. And by fifteen seconds, the one-sided staring contest was broken.

Francis tilted his head sideways, capturing Arthur's mouth. He liberally caressed the writer's lips with his own, only pulling back for short breaths of air. It wasn't rushed…but blue eyes could discern the panic in the other man. He could feel Arthur's lips shaking under his own, and with that he smiled while continuing his less-than-shallow contact on the Englishman's' mouth.

The taller blonde ran his tongue over the man's lower lip, causing Arthur to exude a shuttering gasp. He gave in to the persuasion and applied pressure hesitantly, slowly lowering himself onto Francis lap and threading his fingers into the golden, wavy hair, challenging the man's boldness with his own.

He hummed in response, bringing his hands up to Arthur's hips while sliding the tip of his middle fingers up the other's sides, trailing his ribs though the sheer fabric and lighting the author's skin to sparks. The Englishman exhaled forcibly and sat up, gaping at Francis with confused disturbance.

"H..wha- "Arthur's lip twitched into a tight frown, becoming fully sober. He tilted his chin upwards and narrowed his eyes, pondering what just happened and how he felt about it. Blinking rapidly, he pulled his hands back to his sides in a rigid motion. But only after noticing his position above Francis' lap- he squawked in disbelief and yanked himself away, scuttling out of the room and down the hallway. His footsteps were short and precise in their heavy strides, filling the air of the Frenchman's home with their clamor. Soon after, a slamming door had made the declaration that Arthur was going to retire for the night.

In response to the writer's little show, a pair of blue eyes surveyed the ground and the feelings they contained at that moment.

A mischievous glint appeared in his features, developing a plan.

_All for Arthur._

* * *

><p>Hello! I think I've fallen into the comfy schedule of updating once a week, if that's okay with you?<p>

Because I have school starting again soon…and I don't think I'll be able to pull things together in the span of a few days…

Okay?

I feel like this chapter doesn't make a lot of sense at some points…and if I see a way to clarify- I'll go back and re-write..But for now, this is it.

Sooo- the slight angst and the slight lemon, were they pass or fail? Because I've never done either….and I'd really like to know where things were lacking and suggestions for them? Please?

I feel like my sentences aren't colorful enough…all using uniform structure with some nice adjectives. I don't know how to break out of this mold…so please, if you know something, say something!

But really—should I not write anything lemon-esque? Should I take some time and strengthen my writing skills before I do anything?

….Honesty is appreciated as it will make for a better story!

I don't own Hetalia or Stranger Than Fiction...or Frostwhisker's dog!

(HAI LIBBEY! HOWSIT GOIN?) (My spell check absolutely hated those words...because all of it isn't in the dictionary)

~Gill

P.S. Long chapters are nice...and there might be more of them if updating once a week is chillin' with you...

And if you wanted to know the song I was describing in this chapter once Lovino entered the shop..go look up the song "Time Is the Enemy" by Quantic...it really is hypnotic and dream-like with a sultry air.

Thanks!~


	9. The Poetry of Train Wrecks

_Drowsy green eyes focused on the stove in front of him, his mind starting to function as he shook the last bits of his dreams off of his shoulders. _

"_Coffee?" Francis came up behind him, reaching for the canister _

"_Not today please. But do you have any tea?" _

_An unknown weight forced him against the stove, becoming caged by the taller man's body draped around his own. _

"_Have you ever had __**French pressed**__ coffee, Arthur? It's quite…palatable…" _

_A foreign, tingling pressure erupted in the Englishman's senses- and his voice, coated liberally in an accent, was mingling with his rational mind._

_He wanted to decline, to slap away the French hands raking up his form. But not a sound escaped him, a thought did not occur in protest. Just the short puffs of air into the crook of his neck, staining his face with roses from Francis himself. He dragged his lips up the slope of Arthur's neck stopping right under his jawbone, savoring every beat of the writer's throbbing heart._

_The hands that sent him plummeting into an irrational world traced his elbows and lightly scraped his arms- stopping to compliment his collarbone with a series of brushes and pinches. _Mouthing kisses with a mischievous, rough smirk over Arthur's left shoulder, Francis continued to stir turmoil in the other blonde. __

_Arthur remained utterly flustered and engrossed in the battle of his wills- echoing in his sub-conscious was the prude, telling him all of this was very wrong and didn't make a bit of sense. But more prominent was the murky figure of lust- its supple curves displayed through a thin veil of red. _

_Arthur watched the two figments interact- the provocative woman dancing around the tight-laced man who looked much like Arthur himself. The conscious part of his thought was in a single chair- placed in the midst of the never-ending black setting of his dreams. The arrogant man before her was unfazed by her prominent display- he sneered at her every movement. Patient, she danced circles around him- only lightly handling the other from time to time while walking in long, billowing paces around the seat. He was muttering every profanity at the lady, never allowing his eyes to wander from hers in a subconscious attempt of preservation. _

_She stopped directly in front of Arthur, lifting her arms above a halo of blonde hair and gracing him with a pirouette- landing in his lap and sifting her fingers in his hair. Arthur could see himself wavering, starting to lean into the hands and embracing the weight of the woman. The proper one bloomed in crimson, losing aim of his values and self-control for a moment. And a moment was all she needed- his hands starting to snake up her thighs while she herself snaked into his thoughts, grappling the common sense and teasing the infatuation to come out and play. Splaying her fingers across his lips while the thinking figure remained in an open-mouthed daze…_

_Against the stove, his eyelids fell closed and the ranting voice of pride grew quiet._

_And Arthur could hear the nauseating snap of his gumption- trying to regain any composure that was long gone. He became an incomprehensible murmur, everything he'd done to prevent this murky sensation of lust from his brain proved futile…he was left wandering in obsession through the sensuality Francis had provided him. _

* * *

><p>"<em>¡Bienvenidos!<em>"Antonio swung the door open, fanning his arms in an outward motion to proudly display his living place. Lovino tilted sideways to see past the tall, enthusiastic man- staring at the apartment inside, and decidedly wandering in to explore more. Each piece of furniture was a statement, an expression of him- not merely for function. Lovino appreciated his eye for the quality designs and colors; strolling a few paces to really soak in the feelings of the area.

"I know...there's not a lot of space, but it's the feeling that counts, right?"

"Mhmm." Lovino was stuck in his absent-mind… worn out from his teary-eyed escapade. Leaving him feeling cold and damp, similar to a bag of heavy bricks, not even wanting to lift his feet off the ground. The warmth of the area provided some solace for Lovino as he scuttled back over to the door and slid off his shoes, placing bare feet onto the light hardwood of the flat.

His eyelids felt like they were going to drop any second, and the pain curling in his temples only made it more difficult to stay alert. Heat enveloping him and his focus of vision seemed to shake back and forth. The Italian was happy to pass into a coma on the floor at this point… Olive eyes registered the other man going into the lively green kitchen.

"Lovino?"

"…Yeah?"

"What would you like to eat?"

"Whatever you're making."

Antonio looked at a loss of how to deal with that answer; he paused- awaiting another response to clear the air.

"…" And with a sigh, the lively chef continued with different questions.

"Any foods you're allergic to or just don't prefer that I should know about?" Antonio asked while bending over and surveying the contents of his fridge.

Lovino remained in the living room- looking up in search of an answer for the cook."…I just don't like potatoes."

"You don't like tomatoes?"

"No! No no… I said Potatoes! PO-TAT-OES."

"Ah…okay…Do empanadas sound good to you? I made them just yesterday and I could crisp it back up in the oven?"

"Sure…" A uniform beeping of the oven…a few bowls and plate crashing with silverware in preparation followed.

Antonio chimed back in, "I knew this girl who hated tomatoes—what was wrong with her, I didn't know…but not liking tomatoes is just insanity!"

"Ahah…Yea. I agree." Lovino shuffled into the kitchen, placing himself at one of the two seats and quietly watching Antonio arrange the empanadas onto the sheet.

"Do you mind if I turned on some music?"

"It's your place, do what you want." Lovino couldn't help but wonder why this man always surrounded himself with sound. He couldn't think of a time when Antonio didn't appear to have a beat swirling in his head. And so he asked, soon receiving an answer.

"Music is the soundtrack of our lives! It helps uncover feelings, it gives us moods, influence our emotions…all kinds of things that are wonderful in expressing ourselves…"

"Hm…" It was something worth thinking about- a more abstract concept, but certainly interesting. A muted guitar- tired and doubtful, filled the kitchen air from the speakers.

"I think this music is great when I'm sad… the voice of it has a…an element of it that really speaks to the parts of us that are hurting…"

No matter how tired, Lovino had caught on to what Antonio was doing- trying to comfort him in an indirect way…it was appreciated and noticed. Just as the baker had hoped. But the music made Lovino yearn for sleep even more- staring blankly out the window on the other side of the apartment. He was still surrounded by the clinging fabric of his clothes, however, and they were starting to get unbearably itchy. Unsure of how to make his needs apparent, he rubbed his arms, trying to become preoccupied in something else until Antonio brought it up.

He felt a gaze boring into his forehead, but he kept rubbing his arms, pulling the wet t-shirt away from his arm occasionally, that motion being the only thing keeping him awake… The paranoid sensation still hadn't left him-

He lazily turned his vision to Antonio, noticing the particular shade of evergreen focused directly on him- unblinking as though the action would erase any idea he was sprouting in his head. Lovino snapped the wet sleeve off of his arm in an exaggerated fashion- hoping that he may get the point…

_Wait for it…_

_Almost-_

"OH! Your clothes! That's right! I'm sorry I'll get to that!"

"Yep…"

"Watch the oven?"

"Will do." He said with a short nod as Antonio took quick strides out of the room- a trail of his pleasant smell left hanging in the air.

Even though the man had left the room- it was very apparent that he was still nearby- the sounds of drawers sliding open and closed, light switches flipping on and off, closet doors creaking on their hinges- however, it was all silenced by a very loud thump. A wholesome five seconds of his own heartbeat and music were the only clamor- it was appreciated and also interrupted.

"_Gyaah-_…"

"You okay in there?"

"…Yea…I just—_dropped a drawer_…I'm fine…"

"What the hell, Antonio. You're worse than me…" His vision followed the pacing man all through the kitchen- determined to call Antonio's bluff about the pain. Said man noticed the challenge Lovino had presented.

"It's okay."

"It's swelling."

"No…it's really fine."

"Antonio, your foot is _bleeding."_

"What? No that's—It's just…tomato juice…on my foot."

He sighed, standing up and rejecting the failure of a lie. "Where are the bandages…"

"…"

"Antonio-"

"You go get changed and I'll take care of myself, I promise, sí?"

"…You better." He grumbled, shuffling out into the living room with said clothing.

As the oven beeped, Antonio grabbed an oven mitt and reached in to take out their dinner and place it on the stove to cool. Shortly after he walked right out of the kitchen and into the bathroom down the hall to tend to his wound-

The only bathroom.

Lovino trailed a little ways down the hallway- seeing the light leak out from under the door.

'_How did he get in there so fast!' _

He could wait- but…It's not like Antonio would be back anytime soon, he dropped a drawer on his foot! That was one nasty gash if he'd ever seen one! He figured the toe would've been purple within a few minutes.

He had been in these clothes long enough and they did nothing but stick and itch and make him irritable …which he didn't want to be around Antonio, afraid of turning him away with a sour mood…but if clothes put him in a bad mood, however pathetic that sounded, the facts were the facts…

Surveying his options from his spot in the hallway- he noted that there were 3 other doors…one of them had to be Antonio's bedroom…another could be an office? And one may or may not be a guestroom.

So- in hopes that whichever room he picked that it wasn't his bedroom- Lovino walked haphazardly into a space that presented a brilliant shade of gold on the walls. Judging by the baker's behavior- this room looked way too clean to be the man's bedroom… _Guest room it is then! _

He pushed the door- leaving it barely open...as there was no audible click and Antonio was in the bathroom- he wouldn't randomly check a guest room anyway. He walked over to the opposite side of the room, peeling off his pants and letting them fall to the floor with a wet _schlop_. The light shirt followed afterwards, settled directly into the pile below. Looking over at the door one last time before his final task, he paused and listened- still hearing the man rustling in the other room and taking the green light.

Antonio had actually picked out a funny looking pair of boxer-briefs… they were cream colored and adorned in blueberries…Lovino let out an indignant scoff- hardly able to think of a place that would sell such an item.

_Fucking blueberries? Why?_

They looked small enough- why the Spaniard had a size small enough for him, he didn't know- but he crouched down in front of the bed and slid the clothing on over his legs…standing back up as though nothing had happened and he wasn't wearing some strange underwear with fruit on them…

Next, the pants…he picked the neatly folded item off of the bed and jabbed his feet into the pant legs noting that they were a bit tight- as he wasn't able to get the waistband higher than his thighs. This was always a problem for Lovino; his thighs were actually the widest part of him, not his hips, and as much as he hated it- it gave his legs a feminine silhouette.

He knew they would fit, maybe with a little jumping and some butter… Decidedly not wandering into the kitchen to do such a thing- he settled for bouncing, all the while pulling the pants fervently.

Down the hall, Antonio could hear the light squeaking of the wood floor- a quick pitter patter of feet…he looked back towards the living room and, seeing no sign of Lovino, took a few steps towards the source of the sound.

There was a crack in the door, fortunate for Antonio, and inside he could see Lovino- his brows slanted downwards in frustration while he jumped from foot to foot, trying to get the pants on.

Antonio thought it'd be a close fit…but not so close that the Italian had to hop and struggle so much…But it was too late now, what was he supposed to do? Open the door and say "Hey! I kinda thought they wouldn't fit- and I noticed you half-naked and all...so here- have another pair!"

Aww- that little flamboyant hair just continued to remain stubborn and stick up in its place. Bouncing along with Lovino's every movement. Why didn't he didn't notice it before? It would be one of his new favorite things to watch…something he'd remain focused on for days to come whilst observing Lovino in simple actions like eating, walking, and leaping up and down without a shirt trying to put pants on…

Yep.

Simple, everyday actions…

* * *

><p>He could feel it- not only was he upset about it, he was mortified that he was <em>enjoying <em>it-…that concoction of madness that his brain had cooked up…

The writer re-directed his mind from the dream to a mantra including words like "That would never happen, that did not happen and will not happen."

He clenched his eyes shut and continued to repeat the sentence. And when he regained vision, he dispersed the dream from his memory, hoping that it would not return again for nights to come. His thin body turned over in bed and faced the window, studying the empty pillow next to him and the single, golden hair on it. It had a light wave and was significantly longer than Arthur's own. Meaning that it'd belonged to Francis-

He reached a hand out from under the warm covers and grabbed the curl, threading it between his fingers and pondering various things about the man. For example, why hadn't he said anything about sleeping on the couch? Why did Arthur call the man a pervert? Surely, Francis hadn't done anything risqué _to_ him…Except for that whispering thing on the block the day before…but the kiss- The kiss before bed was completely _his_ doing… An embarrassing fact to face, as he still didn't know how he got himself in that position. But he did nothing to deny it- denial is for the weak. But, Arthur sunk down further in the covers, anything Francis had pointed out that was slightly vulgar- he had already noticed himself.

So what right did he have to criticize the man for it?

A bit of guilt was ebbing around his heart; taking the mans' bed and eating his food and still yelling at him and ranting about everything? -That was a _wonderful _thank you.

He'd really let himself fall out of order with Francis…but it was so difficult to be civil with him. Francis loved competition- as did he- and even though Arthur knew the man was purposefully getting him angry…he couldn't help but react.

He was a gentleman, so what reason did he have to treat Francis differently? Francis was not different from anyone he'd met. Not a bit. So he deserved that common courtesy. He vowed that he would _try_ to be more accepting of the man, to be more civil and thoughtful. Because Francis was right when he said that Arthur didn't have anything to live off of at his house…he knew he was right. That was a simple hospitable act, not a rape attempt. So it was time to grow up a little, swallow some pride and be a better man.

* * *

><p>After an undoubtedly delicious dinner- the complimentary friends had settled on the couch, listening to the murmur of various characters of their movie<em>.<em> Lovino picked it out because it was one movie that Antonio hadn't seen before and also one that he had thoroughly enjoyed…All of the theatrical elements in the movie merged seamlessly into a classic opera, one with a filling plot and dynamic character-something that made the film worthy of viewing to the Italian.

The only downside of the movie was the length of it…as Antonio was dozing off on the side of his shoulder. Slowly but surely, the words and orchestra had blurred into a static in the background, only soothing them further into their sleep.

If Lovino didn't know any better, he'd declare Antonio comatose, because this had been the sixth time he'd poked the Spaniard- each with increasing force, and none of them served to affect him. It looked like he was going to start drooling soon- and even though Lovino wasn't wearing his own clothes, that would still be disgusting.

He grappled the remote and paused the movie, turning and resting his chin on brunette curls that smelled just heavenly.

…If Antonio really was asleep…and he was this close to an _amazingly scented Spaniard…_Why not embrace the opportunity? It was a good enough reason- because Lovino sniffed Antonio- obvious and free of shame, feeling confident in declaring him sleeping.

But sure enough, a quiet, slurred giggle came from the 'dreaming' baker. "…Are… you smelling me Lovi…?"

Antonio had already picked out a nickname…so there was more attention directed to him than he thought…

"No-_" _The Italian's tone remained laced in painful denial.

"Ahah, okay…" Another tired sigh exuded from the baker as he lifted himself higher up and all too quick, he placed his nose in the crook of Lovino's neck- inhaling through his nose, just as loud and even more oblivious than him…"Because _you _smell like…" He stopped talking and took another inhale with all the time in the world. "-Pepper and fresh cologne …It's nice…"

Antonio had no problem with their closeness- he'd even said the previous statement right into the lighter man's skin, mouthing the words all too precisely. Lovino fought to only blush at the action while he squirmed a little in his grip.

"Umm…" He found himself questioning his own actions. Why couldn't he just be honest with Antonio and say he was enjoying his musk? Was he just an impulsive liar? What was so terrible about saying the truth? Antonio had no qualms with that clearly.

But the strong tan arms unraveled from his torso, lifting into the air while the baker yawned, popping his eyes open and blinking rapidly.

"What're you doing?"

Antonio let his arms fall uselessly to the couch, turning his attention to Lovino. "Well- I need to drive you home, sí?"

"…" Lovino remained fixated on the now-captivating brick wall in front of him, not really wanting to agree with his statement.

"…Unless you want to stay?" …Antonio had caught on to that remorse floating in olive depths. It was definitely there…but more prominent was the hard glare of pride. Lovino blinked, wiping the slate of emotions clean from him in one foul swoop and rotating to face Antonio. And even though he was facing the Spaniard…he wasn't looking at him.

"…I…Yea—…I should…-I need to go home and…have to do some _work stuff_."

It felt like too soon for Lovino. Only Veneciano knew that he talked in his sleep, and they've only known each other for two days…making the Italian's strong feelings even more unjustifiable. And what if things were awkward the next morning? What if everything went to hell?

* * *

><p>It was difficult to see anything in the Frenchman's house. The only light source was the moon, filtering through the windows scattered about his house. But after a few stubbed toes and squinting glances at walls, he made his way to the living room. Only to be greeted with the sight of Francis sleeping on the couch… The Frenchman always looked as though he'd posed- even in such a moment like resting.<p>

He walked closer to the form, poking his cheek, watching blonde hair loll side to side with his head.

"…Can I sleep out here Francis?" Arthur's voice echoed throughout the house, fading to a light whisper.

He watched the man for a sign of recognition and found nothing. The only thing he found charitable to his brain was the Frenchman's proportions of his ears to the rest of his face. His ears were hysterically small compared to the rest of him. It made sense for one to want to grow out their hair if their ears were really that miniscule!

He gasped, surprised with his success of finding another real, decent flaw in Francis. And commended himself inwardly with a light hum and a smile, bouncing slightly on his feet.

_More. More things to look at on the Frenchman! Is his collarbone mangled? An un-level shoulder line? Maybe he has a thumb that looks like a toe! But why…_

"Why am I staring at him?"

There was no valid answer to that. So he got back on topic and continued to incessantly jab a certain man's cheek. After his tenth or eleventh prod, French features started to morph into annoyance, only making Arthur giddier with each passing moment.

Arthur had to muffle his giggles into his other palm, though all of it seized when cerulean eyes squinted open and looked up to Arthur still half lidded and glazed. At worst, Francis looked mildly annoyed with Arthur, staring back and hoping the meaning of the Englishman's visit would transfer through eye-contact.

"Quoi." He finally spoke up, heavy and dull in his tone.

"…Can I sleep on the couch?" Francis' whole being didn't move at all, only his eyes gave proof of life. Green eyes studied blue in their dance around the room, trying to process what Arthur had asked. A large amount of silence fell.

He would've responded faster, but Arthur didn't know that he dreamed in French and woke up to English, and that it was very confusing. However, he did finally figure out what the Englishman was saying…starting to warm up the molasses-filled gears of his brain as he woke.

"Oui…" Curtains to deep watery pools closed, Francis' body not moving an inch from its current spot.

"I mean…You can sleep in your bed." That posh English tone clarified, trying to withhold any mocking. Arthur pulled the pillow closer to his face in a faint show of embarrassment. He would try this kindness…no matter how foreign it felt showing it to Francis. A few seconds passed as the Frenchman looked slightly more coherent, eyes a bit more open, though his mouth was still hanging…

"…Why would I want to do that?"

"…Because I want the couch…"

A sigh from Francis as he smothered his head in the pillow. "Go back to bed..."

Arthur blinked a few times…and simply lay down on the carpet. Placing his pillow under his head as he got settled three feet from the tired form on the sofa. Francis' bed felt too soft sometimes to the writer…like he was suffocating in a cloud, drowning in heaven…_dying in paradise._

A thought pinged the inside of Arthur's skull.

"Lovino's life becomes perfect…heavenly…only to die." He whispered to himself…fascinated with the new concept.

The duel emeralds stayed wide open, calculating and processing every facet of this new way to end a life. It would be quite poetic to record the descent…Yes, he'd sculpt every detail to perfection. Create a haven for Lovino…change his life to a blissful schedule…but there'd be trouble in paradise…soon enough.

* * *

><p>Antonio's car rolled up to the front of Lovino's big, lonely, apartment complex and that's when he chose to ask what was bubbling up in his mind.<p>

"So…What kind of work stuff do you have to do, Lovi?"

Lovino slouched visibly in the seat, sighing dramatically and knotting his hands together in front of him. "…The kind…" He pursed his lips and looked up to the roof of the car and then back down to the dashboard"…_ forget this-_ I quit, Antonio. I quit yesterday...I just stopped showing up…so you're not going to be audited anytime soon and I- _Well, I'm out of a job..._- I lied." The Italian stopped to focus completely on Antonio and let those words sink in. "And I'm going to leave now…"

But Lovino didn't move an inch. He stayed in the seat, fidgeting endlessly while a frown started to cloud over his features. And his expression slipped back and forth- from a scowl to a pout in turmoil…

Antonio even started to think he was having a conversation with himself…it was apparent that he didn't want to leave. He could see that, but it also looked like Lovino was uncomfortable. With what, he couldn't pick up…but from what he had observed of the Italian, the man could be sensitive about peculiar things.

"You can stay if you want…" He left the offer open, making sure his voice was warm and tempting…as charm could be used to his advantage…Something must have been working because now the brunette's curl trailed whipped around wildly, from the doorstep of his apartment to the Spaniard's dashboard. A frantic decision…

"I—It's just that— Antonio, I've only known you for _two days!_"

He furrowed his brows—not seeing the issue. But that's because it really wasn't one…Lovino complicated things for himself. Almost like he refused an easy life—there was the pride that he felt obligated to work for things. "That really doesn't matter, you know…"

"Then why'd you offer to take me home!"

"Because I thought if that was what you wanted then it's polite to offer?" He was sure to make it a question, so as to not step on any toes in accusation.

"Yea…I- that's …_that's exactly what I should want…_But-" This was the fourth time Lovino sighed in the conversation. "...I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?" His hand crept towards the door, affirmative in its task. Antonio had taken to slouching in his chair now too, his mood deflating with the Italian's impending leave.

"…Should I be here at 10:30? That's right before I drop in to the bakery so it'd be fine for me…" Green eyes continued to watch Lovino as he started his guilty walk to the front door.

"Sure- I'm number 17...thanks." Adorned in the Spaniards clothes, Lovino shuffled further away from the car, muttering angry thoughts to the entryway; upset with himself more than anything.

Antonio stuck around…still not convinced that this was something Lovino had _decided _on- He made it look like he was obligated to be back home every night, as if his mother would scold him if he wasn't home before midnight. He stayed by the sidewalk in his spot and switched off the engine. Watching Lovino pass through various windows on his ascent upstairs. After all, he only noticed the man was stalking that morning because he was good at it himself…

A particularly hateful voice reached his ears, full of colorful Italian words, being said with perfect accent and emphasis.

"What the hell…WHY? WHAT HAPPENED TO GOING WITH THE MOMENT, YOU FUCKHEAD! _Tomorrow_…-tch, **there is no tomorrow!**" Light arms flailed around the room wildly, adding mannerisms to his speech from time to time. He paced throughout his bedroom, walking from one side of the bed to the other and shrugging his shoulders like it added more seasoning to his delicious plate of violent wrath- served right to Antonio.

Because Lovino had failed to notice his bedroom window was open a bit more than a crack. Wide enough for sound to travel in a direct stream to the baker…

Lovino stopped mid-gesture, his hands stiff and fanned out with his shoulders up tight. A wide grimace melted when he saw the wild grin on Antonio's face, peering through the windshield below with a light wave. Obviously Antonio didn't care, he thought it was funny…he appreciated Lovino for who he was…Antonio was a stalker himself!

He inflicted this on himself! He walked right into the jail cell of an apartment like he wanted to!

"_Why..._" Everything was tense in him, even his vocal chords. He reached out to his window-sill, sliding it down and sealing himself in the depressing, lonely room for the night. He didn't want to be impolite to the Spaniard…and through Lovino's grimace he forced a squeamish, unsure smile with a dismissive wave. After that, he walked from the glass and promptly flipped off the light- hoping Antonio would take the signal and leave.

"Forget your fuckin' pride for a moment…So stupid…even he knows…_he knows…_So WHAT'S WRONG WITH **YOU**!"

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH _YOU?_" A gruff voice retorted through the wall, most likely a disgruntled neighbor.

"YOU CLOSE YOUR FUCKING PIE-HOLE! I'LL SAY WHAT I WANT IN MY APARTMENT!" Lovino snarled at his wall, roaring right through it and effectively silencing the other voice.

He huffed and sat down on his bed, taking the watch off and putting it on his bedside. However, the light didn't go out…his wristwatch remained stubbornly bright. And Lovino, not even feeling like putting up a fight anymore, just turned over and closed his eyes to simulate his own darkness.

"_Lovino could not understand fate. He could not understand the behavior of his watch. He couldn't even understand the desires of his own heart… So he certainly couldn't understand the poetry of train wrecks."_

He realized he just wasn't comfortable with being loved and giving it back… and that maybe Antonio could teach him a thing or two. He didn't even care about the voice anymore.

"English voice, you can suck my dick. So stuff it and shut up." A seething mass remarked from under the tucked-in covers.

"_Fate, like two careening locomotives, would occur with or without his participation"_

* * *

><p>Hello! I hope this chapter was...to your liking? I feel like this one was a big hassle to write...why it was, I'm not sure...but I know that it was.<p>

Okay-So I'm going camping this weekend and school starts next week so we'll see if a chapter's up by then...

And I apologize for not having this up yesterday! I get distracted by friends...yes, that's the excuse I'll use...

~Gill


	10. The Problem with an AlarmClock is

Lovino's small, comfortable form lay wrapped up in multiple blankets, absolutely blissful in the land of sleep. Nothing could disturb him, not a house fire, a disquieting narration, or a thousand annoying Americans. It was wonderful. At least, it would have been if he didn't have anything to do that day.

His watch even knew that he had tasks to accomplish…but Lovino had a talent for sleeping in large, unreal quantities…at least, some days it was a talent, on others, a downfall.

And today, it was a downfall.

A few knocks echoed into the living space, not reaching the dormant Italian's ears. If anything, he sank deeper into his world, the sounds livened the backdrop of his dream, not a single thing more.

In a wild state of dementia, his wristwatch light refused to disappear and sent the dark room up in flames. All Lovino could muster was a small groan of discomfort while the knock rang through the house again. And the brunette seized all movement, focusing on what he thought he was hearing. A third tap on the door resounded again, confirming his suspicions and sending him into a fit of hot-headedness. Lovino was not a friend of the alarm clock or the sunrise; he chose to wake up around noon when possible...But whoever this was at the door was making sleep unattainable, which was absolutely infuriating to the exhausted man.

He yanked the blankets off of him with a loud _fwwp, _huffing to himself whilst taking short hurried steps towards the door- seething in a quiet, murderous intent of whoever stood behind the barrier.

With a yawn, Lovino opened the door- glaring directly into the wide, unassuming eyes of Antonio. His hand was still hanging in the air too, about to do exactly what Lovino didn't want.

The Spaniard only gaped at Lovino, considering the man's appearance a bit…unique for where they were going. The Italian was wrapped up in an olive green blanket, his hair fully mussed and looking like he'd gone through a tornado. The full lips of his mouth even hung open dumbly while he shoved a weak, confused grimace at the baker.

"Um…it's 10: 15…and I know I'm early but…I was just kinda anxious?"

He let the words hang in the air, infiltrating the other brunette's dull brain. Through his fight into the multiple layers of fatigue, Lovino's eyebrows rose with realization. And while the heat started to rush to his face, he snapped his jaw shut and pivoted to locate the closest mirror and see the damage of last night's sleep.

He was supposed to be dazzling, stunning and unfazed by the morning and its demands. But here he was…even Veneciano hadn't seen him like this since he was nine! What if he smelled bad, was there a stain on his clothes somewhere? The apartment wasn't as clean as he would've liked for visitors, the dishes weren't done, and he thought he saw a pile of dust collecting on that bookshelf…so many things…

Okay, the dust on the bookshelf had been there since he moved in- that, he didn't care about. But still, he was nowhere near ready to see this sexy Spanish man! He took fast, hurried paces around his house, trying to think of what to do next in this situation.

"…You can come in…!" Lovino called to Antonio from his spot in his bedroom, getting ready for a very quick shower.

"Okay…" Antonio answered, non-chalant- already in the kitchen and observing all the little details of the Italian's home…the color of the walls a warm green, but at the same time refreshing and crisp. It faded into the living rooms beige tone…a bit dull, but maybe the man wasn't allowed to paint because it was a rental?

As he continued to walk about, eventually settling on the couch, he heard the brushing sound of fabric sliding off of skin, and afterwards, the shower starting. It gave him more imagination than he would've liked. But Antonio only exhaled a sigh and diverged his thoughts to the agenda for today, what he might be able to show Lovino at the bakery…maybe Mr. Vargas could even teach him a secret family recipe from Italy…the possibilities were endless.

That… would be amazing and a day worth remembering for Antonio. At least, every day with this man appeared to be one worth remembering- a bustling mass of energy orbited around Lovino like the solar system and its sun.

Five minutes had passed, and standing on tiles in the shower was Lovino, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the day…remaining thoroughly confused about the Englishman's words…as long as Antonio didn't plan on taking him on any trains…he might be okay.

He messily lathered the soap onto his skin, making sure he smelt as fresh as his garden…as attractive as he could be for Antonio. He always wanted to be presentable, but after he stepped onto the plush carpet- wiping away the condensation on the mirror looking into his reflection- he noticed he hardly looked the part.

He tamed his disheveled hair, dragging a brush through it while staring into those groggy olive eyes…he certainly felt more awake, but it must've been one of those days where nothing went right.

But as long as this day wasn't his last, something went right.

* * *

><p>'<em>Vous enfants de la Patrie! ...Le jour de gloire est arriv<em>_é…_'

Arthur, however, was not deep in sleep and was awoken immediately by the disturbing music of Francis' phone. The writer didn't like waking up to people talking, specifically Francis' talking or hearing French first thing in the morning…

…And the Frenchman was nowhere to be seen- the sound of the shower running in the background along with the unfettered melody of his alarm. All the while, green eyes remained fixated on the mobile, wanting nothing more than for it to shut up.

He knew it wouldn't no matter how much he silently pleaded, he wasn't dreaming anymore and there were restrictions of possibilities in this world. So he sat up slowly, and by coincidence, the pitter-patter of water hitting the showers' floor had ceased. Arthur automatically rose to his feet; picking the cell phone up in his hand and walking into the hallway with it, not bothering to put the ringtone on snooze while it was still singing proudly from his side of the bathroom door, declaring its nationality with absolutely no shame.

Francis even had the nerve to _sing along_ with the nauseous anthem, saying all the words with a flawless enunciation.

He opened the bathroom door to greet Francis in his towel, partial nudity being the least of Arthur's concerns at the moment, seeing that his grip on the phone would probably make it split in two at any second. But Francis did not see- he was merely pleasant and clean…in some sort of ignorant bliss of his cultural parade.

"_Entendez-vous dans …- _Arthur, how are you?_" _That was the writer's breaking point. He chucked the phone violently at Francis' head, earning a yelp and smug satisfaction when Francis' failed to dodge the projectile. It was a small price to pay for waking up the Englishman three hours earlier than he planned.

He walked out of the bathroom, leaving the Frenchman to dwell in his agony alone while the cold air outside of the bathroom filtered through the doorway to the shivering man. The phone had fallen to the floor since Francis had failed to catch it, effectively silencing it once it contacted the ground with much force.

"…A man can't like his country?" Francis muttered from his spot in the bathroom, speaking like a whining child. The bubbly mood he was carrying had now wilted into something short of disgrace.

"You can like whatever you want, just not anything French." Arthur retorted, meandering back into the living room, hoping to get more sleep- now choosing to take up the blonde's spot on the couch because _anything_ was better than the floor.

The chef frowned at that rule of Arthur's, considering how vast the majority of things he appreciated had a French history, French origin, or something related to the country in some way. And so, he left the Englishman to sulk in his love-less, uncultured world. Decidedly, Francis got started on their breakfast with the goal of earning a compliment from Arthur.

* * *

><p>Antonio didn't shy away from him when he was drenched in rain and as emotional as a thirteen-year-old girl…even though he was still acting like one at the moment, making sure every strand of hair looked perfect and checking his clothes thrice. This was just a phase he went through when meeting new people- nothing more. And whenever the Spaniard was around, he never felt like a new acquaintance, as though Antonio was a long lost family member and could hear anything about Lovino and appreciate it in a deeply moving way.<p>

After getting dressed in colors that he knew, for a fact, were flattering for his skin tone, eye color and such, he started a hunt around the house. While in the shower, Lovino got the idea that starting today, every word the voice said, every cryptic code- would be written down to think about. He vowed to this notebook near him at all times and pay attention…_for science._

Green eyes quietly observed the Italian fluttering about the room, crumbling a paper here and putting away another item there. Occasionally stopping to look at himself on any reflective surface when he thought Antonio wasn't looking.

But he was.

In fact, he was particularly focused on a single drop of water that had escaped the bath towel and slid down the slope of Lovino's neck, resting in the dimple of his collarbone- his skin looked so soft…it was a shade of porcelain found only in the palette of flesh tones seen near the equator.

The Italian successfully found a decent notebook and writing utensil and shuffled past Antonio, mumbling a half-hearted apology for not being awake when he arrived. Lovino hardly remembered that the only thing left to do was to get in the car with Antonio and leave. Fussing about every little detail became a given with him simply because it kept him busy. But he led Antonio by the wrist and in a second, decided skipping breakfast would be worth it because he could eat all the treats in bakery all day as much as he wanted.

_Definitely worth it._

* * *

><p>"Breakfast is ready, Arthur…!" He flipped the last crêpe off of the pan while waiting for the man who hadn't made a sound. "Ar-thurrrrr…" What was he doing now? Playing the silent game? "…<em>Mon chou?<em>" The affectionate French should have made Arthur's resilient temperament flare. But it didn't

Because, as Francis had noticed when walking into the living room, Arthur was asleep.

He stood before the blonde (in his second-favorite apron, no thanks to the green eyed man's escapade with the paring knife), observing the rare scene. Arthur was resting on _his _couch. Yes…it was _just _a couch, but the Englishman had kicked him out of his own bed…and now stole the last designated spot he had left…taking over his last castle.

Even now he looked grumpy- being upset all the time to the point where anyone would assume he was wearing a single mask of disappointment. Thick eyebrows hung low on his face with peach lips pulled taut. He had interesting cheekbones though, they were prominently high, but still slim and lithe- appearing only in the bone structure of nobles and scholars.

His eyebrows started to raise into a light, pleading expression- rouge carelessly stained his cheeks with a pair of loosened lips- restrained in ecstasy. The trim chest rose and fell considerably faster than usual, Francis had the ebbing notion that he really should wake up Arthur before things went in an awkward direction.

Maybe he was simply over-heating- that's why he was pink? What could he be dreaming about that would create such an expression? Francis just allowed himself to wander, trying to give Arthur the benefit of the doubt. _He really could be too warm_…It wasn't right to wear a sweater and trousers while taking a nap in the middle of May…especially brown trousers, as that's a color obviously worn _only_ in fall.

Even Arthur should know that…

"Arthur?" Francis ghosted his fingertips over the pale, slender wrist and its bone.

"Mnnn…"

The Frenchman's hold became stiffer on Arthur's joint. "Arthur…wake up."

"I don'…you…- stop…I don't wanna-"

'_Don't. Make. Assumptions…He- he's telling me to stop waking him…not-' _Francis sighed in exasperation."Arthur..come on—" The sleeping writer clenched his toes, twitching his hips in such a subtle movement that you wouldn't notice if you didn't stare for a few moments. Unfortunately though, Francis did- only in the pure spirit of confirmation of course...

A sobering, serious air set over the man- not very amused because he was to refrain from making jabs at Arthur's "French side"…he promised himself he would. And when does Francis not listen to his amazing, well-thought out advice? …Well, most of the time he didn't…he preferred to give people advice and go about his own thing, ignoring all the suggestions he made to others...but he should never break a promise...

The blue-eyed chef leaned forward to whisper into Arthur's ear- but he did not speak once he spotted a miniscule, endearing tattoo of a red rose tucked behind the Englishman's ear- its evidence of rebellion mingled with the lighter blonde's hair to hide itself in shame. The rose was fully aware it was only part of Arthur's past, not his future or present and that it wouldn't be going elsewhere anytime soon. It resembled another phase of the writer's history though, another thing that shaped him into the man he is today.

"You must wake up or I'll eat _all_ the food…all of the amazing, delici-" He was interrupted by a barely audible, airy moan- hardly a shot of breath bursting from Arthur's lungs.

…

Yes, things had definitely gotten awkward…

He pulled himself away, talking loud and clear as can be, as though speaking to someone across a hallway. "Arthur…get up."

The writer jolted from his relaxed posture and, no doubt enjoyable, dream on the couch, staring at Francis with sheer terror and embarrassment while his face only bled into a deeper hue. All that the Frenchman granted for reassurance was a knowing smirk with hands folded behind his back in resignation…the truth was nothing to be ashamed of as long as you weren't hiding it for some reason.

_Had Arthur been hiding something?_

"Breakfast is getting cold."

"Ah…yes...That's right…-"

Two sets of forks and knives scraped the surface of plates, indulging themselves in the French breakfast before them. That was the only sign of life in the house- no talking, no music, just the faint sound of breaths being taken and quality food being eaten.

It wasn't too uncomfortable, but the air wasn't relaxed either.

"I apologize about…earlier…"

"Ah…it's okay…I think I still don't understand what compelled you to do that though…"

"…"

"Waking me up in the middle of the night, that is."

"Oh…That…Yes…but, unfortunately, I don't understand any more of my actions than you…"

The conversation tapered off naturally, but neither of them wanted it to end. A French accent spoke up again to fight off the encroaching silence.

"…Have you thought of any more settings for Lovino's final scene?"

"No…" A little white lie wouldn't hurt…either way, venting his ideas always appeared to exhaust the quiet inspiration. He didn't want to spoil it… and he was so very curious what Francis' expression of shock would be when not mixed with disgust as well.

* * *

><p>The morning breeze brought life to olive sights and a more forgiving appearance to Lovino. And once entering the bakery of the Spaniard, the Italian's hunger flared into something dangerous- almost ready to inhale the whole display of cookies and cakes.<p>

"Ah, okay…so-" He paused to a moment and grabbed a handful of cloth, and after untangling the mass, it could be identified as two aprons, one black and one yellow. "Here's an apron." Antonio offered the brighter one to a now disgruntled Italian, wincing and shoving his hands out to block the fabric.

"I _refuse _to make sweets while looking like a fucking _canary… _"

"But…Lovino…the black one's mine and I thought it might be too-"

"I don't care! Just give it to me!"

"But-"

"_Re-fuse._" In a defiant display, lighter hands clamped onto their hips. A wrinkly pout dominated the whole Italian's being- clamping the air around both of them in the flip of a switch.

"…Okay." He slowly handed the bigger apron to Lovino, not too enthusiastic about looking like a overgrown man in a small, beamingly happy apron…but if that's what the man needed to work, so be it.

They ran through multiple things that were in Antonio's average schedule, but the listlessness he usually felt had dispersed…Lovino always struggled with something every thirty seconds or so…he wouldn't admit to it and do his best to hide any signs of strain…but even Antonio could hear his irritated grunts when the dough was too sticky or the icing didn't look right.

The door chimed with the alert of another customer, and another excited gasp paired with a flash of shining eyes from Antonio followed it.

Chewing on a toothpick was Alfred, hands stuffed in the pockets of his copper hoodie in a careless, relaxed posture. Antonio took quick strides to the cash register and patiently awaited the studying blue eyes and their decision.

A good thirty seconds passed until the toothpick fell from Alfred's mouth and he slammed his hands on the counter, matching the emerald gaze with his own intense cerulean. "You have apple pie here today!"

"Yes…yes we do!"

"Oh my god, get me some of that…pronto señor…!"

Lovino tsk'ed at the garbled Spanish that had been thoroughly slaughtered by his American accent. The sound of annoyance had brought the blonde's attention to him however…and Alfred stared as if it was a new addiction of his; he'd already stared at the bakery menu, stared at green-eyed men, and now staring at an Italian until it scared the hell out of Lovino.

The Italian could almost hear the _ping!_ in Alfred's brain when realization struck the dense cavity.

"Oh my God! The questions- I completely forgot!"

"Like_ fuck_ you did."

"Geez Lovi, you're so shameless..."

"Don't call me that, no one can call me that."

"But Antonio can, can't he?"

"And where did you hear this false, retarded information?"

"He said it to you just now…weren't you listening?"

Lovino turned his head to glace at Antonio- and, unfortunately, he was currently staring at him from the cut up pie, meaning Lovino had completely missed Antonio's sentence and Alfred was right…and now he also knew about the pet name.

Wonderful.

"Aaaaand I also wanted some macaroons…So chop-chop, little Lovi!" Alfred clapped his hands like he was ordering a young kid to do house-chores.

"Fuck you." Lovino slapped a bitter retort on the American.

He was contradicting his words and doing what the customer asked, he grabbed five of the worst-looking macaroons he could find in the case (which was difficult because everything Antonio crafted looked amazing), while stealthily cracking a few in his hands as he put them in the bag.

"Ouch." Was the only thing said in response- a dull, even tone… though Lovino's words proved to have no effect on him…maybe later when he looked forward to his precious macaroons -his only friend in this world- and saw them crumbled, he would break down in tears. An evil, foreboding smirk appeared on Lovino's lips, sealing Alfred's fate as he left the bakery.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Jones!" Antonio waved as the American walked out and turned around one last time to return the goodbye; giving Alfred one of his luminescent smiles that were so wide it turned his vision into little slits of evergreen.

However, the very second the pumpkin-colored door hit the frame, Antonio pivoted his neck as though he were an owl and gripped Lovino's arm, walking back into the heavy cooking room and shoving himself and the flustered Italian into a dark, miniscule supply closet. Lovino sensed he was only a few inches away from the other form- as he could feel the breath on his face and smell the remains of chocolate mingling in Antonio's breath- Lovino wasn't the only one who snacked on the job apparently.

"Did you break the macaroons for him?" The shorter brunette didn't know if Antonio was mad at him for it…or if he should even feel guilty- because he didn't really…the obnoxious blonde had it coming to him…

"Um," A sigh. "…Yea…I-"

"Good. I gave him a slice of rhubarb pie instead of apple too…"

"What?...Why?"

"No one gets to call you Lovi but me, right? That's why."

"I… But you seemed so-"

"Happy? Innocent? Yes. That's the joy of having a cheery, slightly dumb reputation…you can get away with so much more…"

"That's not fair-"

"Ahah…Well, you always speak your mind, for that, I admire your courage…And people expect you to be blunt and harsh because of that trait- so _you_ can act however you want…_That's _not fair."

"Hmm."

"Yes…but the funny thing is…Alfred would assume you broke the cookies, not that they crumbled elsewhere…and that _I_, on the other hand, _accidentally _gave him the wrong slice of pie…"

"That's not funny."

"Maybe not to you. But I think people work in strange ways. And that, in itself, is amusing."

Lovino had nothing to say on topic, and so it was getting boring. They had gotten steadily used to their tight surroundings in the dark and Lovino offered a new subject that had been floating around his brain. "You smell like chocolate."

"Ahaha, really? …I _did _steal a spoonful of ganache from your bowl when you weren't looking… _Así_, _Lo s-"_

"_Bastardo!_" A few punches to the permanently tanned chest of Antonio followed the angry name.

"Ehi! I saw you swipe a bit too!…Don't be a hypocrite!" He backed up as much as he could, the giddy feeling that filled his stomach from this fiery character was so liberating and unique.

The assault died down with the point accepted and lither hands fell to their sides. "Shut up." A subdued chuckle filled the air from Antonio as he laced his fingers into Lovino's own in their position by his hips.

"You're so strange…" Their vision had finally adjusted to the darker area, and even though all they could see of each other was the blurry reflection of the light outside the door on their pupils, that was all they wanted to see.

Oddly enough, a genuine, endearing smile painted itself onto Lovino- converting him into a portrait of his child-like self. A wave of captivation washed over Antonio, surveying every inch of the rare expression while being awe-struck himself. He did not blink once, even when it was replaced by the customary scowl for anyone who dared look him in the eye.

It must've been embarrassment…But Antonio hadn't intimidated him, had he? He only wanted to stare into those watchful, intense portals Lovino's being. Possibly, something about that made Lovino's gumption waver. The Italian had always been paranoid since when he first saw him…if there was a designated someone who would worry about everything- the person's name must have been Lovino Vargas.

Again, the brash voice of Mr. Vargas broke the silence, addressing another serious issue in their personal conversation.

"Who's watching the pumpkin bread?"

"Lovino, can we not worry about a loaf for a minute or two?"

"But…I love pumpkin bread."

"Yes…You and I…and thousands of other people in this city. But one loaf of pumpkin bread will not feed them all…so if this one doesn't make it out perfect we'll be just fine, sí?"

"Hmmn-" Lovino grumbled from his spot under Antonio's chin- not objecting when the taller man pulled his own hands up to lay upon the brawny, apron-adorned chest. Another discontented sigh oozed from the Italian's lungs, at least, he wanted to sound discontent…he actually felt quite the opposite.

'_Why is he always so warm?'_

A glowing hand left Lovino's right hand alone on his chest- it came back though, now tilting his chin upwards.

But he didn't kiss him.

That's all Lovino expected and wanted though…

'_Just a kiss…This is nice. But on the lips, please?'_

Maybe the Author had prompted Lovino and Antonio for this scenario, maybe Antonio didn't know what came over him at this moment of passion. But only the fact that Antonio was kissing him fervently now was of importance.

* * *

><p>"I've thought of it all, everything that will make Lovino's life marvelous…" Arthur wandered the street with the Frenchman in his own uneven gait.<p>

"Mhmm…" Absent in mind and more concerned with the pair of women walking down the other side of the street, Francis only hummed. Soon after spotting the attractive figures, the sunset caught his eye instead…a wonderful blend of pastels and hues of such vibrancy.

If only they were on top of a nearby building…then this scene would be complete and flawless. Francis lost sight of his current life for a moment- starting to daydream of a day in the clouds, heaven forbid he actually enjoys the area a bit while he's out instead of babysitting the short-fused man all the time. Arthur probably wouldn't want to sit up there too long though, as he had a difficulty with slowing down and just taking things in, trying to savor every second made it bitter in Arthur's perspective.

So be it. Maybe he would just leave Arthur where he was, violently writing on someone's doorstep without a grasp of reality.

But Arthur had already left him, as he was nowhere to be seen, the tuft of blonde hair was now invisible; green eyes peering into his own were not present. Arthur had single-handedly shoved the duty of sitting on a doorstep to Francis- making the man wait in an open space to make sure the Englishman didn't run away, get killed, or anything else more reckless.

He had a right to be worried- the writer really had some loony, abstract ideas…However, everyone knows that genius is close to madness. With blonde locks loosely threaded in hands, Francis waited…trying to sink into the beating heart of the metropolis to pass time.

He could hear the rhythmic patter of freshly-shined shoes hitting the pavement. They were brisk and upbeat, much different from the usual strut of the Englishman, always sounding a bit uneven and heavy, remorse calling out in every move of his foot. He'd only left Francis' sight for a few minutes, and apparently, that was all Arthur needed. Walking in this eye-catching show, was a new shade of Arthur, but some things were different about him, the serious tie around his neck was loosened, the cuffs of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and ink writing was scribbled and scratched all along his skin.

Francis could only stare for a moment, the man looked like a talking novel, script was etched on any visible surface of his skin excluding his face and neck. And in a way, it was strangely beautiful.

"Arthur—why?"

"I didn't have paper…but…Francis, I've done it."

"Done what now?"

"I've killed Lovino Vargas."

"Ah, wonderful…" Blue eyes became preoccupied, examining all the spots of script on the Englishman.

'_How did he even manage bending that way to write there?'_

* * *

><p><em>Allo!<em>

I'm so sorry I was a week late, I went up North, school started...things happened...

BUT THIS IS HERE.

SO YOU FAITHFUL READERS (No matter how few, you're all so very dear to me...) CAN ENJOY.

I appreciate your comments, as this is the first real creative writing I've voiced...but really- I'm quite happy with the future of this story...

I promise you'll like the end too...unless you're messed up in the head- but otherwise...yea.

~Gill


	11. His Name's Marcus, Not Matthew

Sooo- In other news I keep forgetting to mention I don't own Hetalia up here...but- um. Yea. Truth is, I don't.

Sorry. I wouldn't know what to do with these characters anyway.

* * *

><p>"…This line is really poetic…~ '<em>A worn look of resignation, something that never belonged <em>_**near **__the Italian, dominated his last moments of open eyes._' " Francis recited to give the compliment where it was due.

"Ah, thank you- that was one of the first lines I'd written. The best writing pieces are the beginning sentences because they're so raw and untouched by logic and grammatical rules."

"And where did you find the pen to write all of this?"

"I stole it off of a businessman; people are in such a hurry in these times- hardly notice a chap when he swipes a utensil…"

"You know...it would be much easier if you would just peel your shirt back- "

"No."

"Fine-" Francis rolled up the sleeve of Arthur's shirt to an uncomfortably tight spot on his arm, maybe he would appreciate the patience given earlier now…the assistant's digits fiddled with the cloth, trying to move it out of the way- but it was no avail. Arthur was a terrible mannequin, hardly willing to bend in the correct direction.

"I'm going to scribble all over this damn blouse of yours, _I bet it's even polyester! _Arthur, so extravagant…_wearing the fabric of the gods!"_

Blustering through a snarl, the white **cotton **fabric flew into the air and Arthur reeled himself to seethe at the Frenchman personally.

"You cock-mongering son of a wench. Fine. Are you happy? Look!" Hands splayed outwards to expose a bitter man's chest. "Arthur Kirkland in the flesh! Touch my porcelain veneer and so help me, I will skin you alive to roast on that fire, Mr. Bonnefoy."

"I'll agree to that deal, except I am allowed to move you as needed-"

"If I even get even the slightest whiff of wanting from you-"

"I know…_It's not even me that you should be worried about."_

"What was that?"

"Excuse me. I did not say anything…_I only speak in incomprehensible murmur, Monsieur Kirkland._" Francis had to initiate the next phase of his plan to take this bushy-browed, stubborn Englishman down a notch, as difficult as it was to keep the tens of hundreds of insults flying around his brain right now. It wasn't nearly as fun to agree with the offered verbal abuse either.

"Yes. Yes you do." Again, he had declared Francis' inferiority with that tenacious, juvenile tone, as though Arthur was the king of the playground, declaring the rules and commandments for all his self-proclaimed underlings.

A few long minutes of sulking in silence rewarded the writer with self-enlightenment: Francis was adapting to his game.

From in front of short blonde hair, Francis peered into the crevice of Arthur's neck. He took hold just under the tight jawline, directing English posture to expose the soft spot with his steady hands. Arthur avoided any and all forms of eye-contact as this situation was embarrassing enough…

The only alternative time this position would be taken is with lovers…but the scribbles continued well up to Arthur's collarbone and the shadow of his head made the font barely visible.

"…I'm truly sorry you have to do this." It sounded earnest, similar to a confession. But his childish snicker said otherwise. "…Are you sure you don't want to change this sentence to a question- " He took a breath to read the quote smoothly- but his monologue was cut off.

"Positive."

"But you don't even know which-"

"I don't want or need you meddling in my work; the words of a Frenchman such as yourself are not valued in this society."

Francis proceeded to rotate Arthur's shoulders with more aggression and less tender care when reading different lines of words and thoughts after this derogatory comment. Arthur allowed it. He _had_ let go of obligatory manners, but was it really his fault when Francis naturally unbridled his inner thoughts and yanked them to the surface of his tongue?

After a huff released from Francis' enraged mouth, he started his thought-out reprimand. "I will tell you, Arthur; I have half a mind to lock you in the bath and stop recording these 'useless English thoughts' of _yours_ right now…I'd force you to shower alone _or with me_- erasing this 'wonderful art' from your skin. But for now…you're in my house, you are around me every moment of every day, while consuming and- if I'm correct- _enjoying_ my food. So if you could be _so kind_ to appreciate this seemingly-unconditional help Arthur, I'd appreciate it."

No response. The point had been clearly made and taken. They were both aware that defeat was imminent; and that it was a matter of getting there without all of the cuts and bruises…_like mature adults_…

"Does this say 'limp' or 'wimp'?"

"'Wimp?' Of course not. How could you possibly mix up an 'L' with a 'W'? …Why on _earth_ would I use the word wimp?" However, the Englishman couldn't resist the temptation of stabbing at Francis' knowledge, or lack of it.

"How do _you _write an 'L' that looks like a 'W'?"

"Well!" An astounded huff of air- still conjuring another batch of insults. "Why don't _you_ try writing on yourself in a public area, trying to reserve _some _dignity while your brain is just chittering on like there's no tomorrow! That shabby pen was running out of ink too. And I certainly couldn't see what I was writing, so don't judge me, you cunt!"

Another round of cross disputes. They both proved worthy adversaries to each other. Francis and Arthur were mentally witty and sharp of tongue. This cycle of quiet, strained cooperation always got too high-strung and unraveled through yells in order to be wound up again between them.

"Arthur, I can't see this-"

"Oh, shut up! I'm sure you can!" Francis arched the English elbow in a direction that displayed anything but grace. Blue eyes were making a vain attempt to decode the letters. "…Bloody hell, who do you think I am? Mr. Fantastic?"

"But I can't read at the angle it's at when you-" Arthur tried a wild swat for the Frenchman's nose and missed- making the furnace of his heart burn haughtily, still aching for a fight. Breaking the rule of fair play, Francis pulled the appendage against his back unnaturally.

"I DON'T BEND THAT WAY, CHRIST! Just—Get away from me! Away!" His firm, slender hand forced the helper out of his way while he stormed through the doorway to the bathroom, hoping the mirror could replace Francis' job.

Said man only reclined onto his bed, awaiting the looming defeat of Arthur. The issue wasn't French incompetence; it was English pride and impatience.

After three easy minutes though, he was back and unsuccessful, crossing his arms to be perfectly clear about his disdain of the situation.

"Giving up?"

"Shut up before I throw something at you."

* * *

><p>"Lovino."<p>

"Hm?"

He looked up from his work, in the middle of constructing the shaped cookies from dough. Antonio stood on his tippy toes to get a direct aerial of the cookies, observing the little marks of Lovino's amateur hands on the edges of the raw treats. Maybe he would get questioning glances with mentions of child-labor when they were sold…but Mr. Vargas was more than a child, obviously. Antonio's apron upon him was the finishing touch, the deciding factor the proved Lovino belonged in _El Tomate Dulce _with him, for this week and weeks to come. And even with years of practice, Antonio hoped those little smudges from less-than-steady digits remained…as they were another thing to cherish of Lovino.

It had been decided in his mind- Antonio vowed to reject any opposition to his realization.

"Would you like to go shopping with me for dinner tonight?"

"Don't you need to make more of the cannoli?"

"Ah…but _that's _the joy of owning a shop—I come and go as I please, checking in from time to time while the workers…work."

"I want to finish this up first." His eyes went back towards the cookies on the table.

"_Why?_" To achieve a better view of Lovino's expressive face, he sunk down to his elbows, also bending his knees towards the floor in a fluent movement- looking directly into the concentrated scowl Italian lips preformed.

"Because I want to, dammit…" Stubborn olive refused to make a connection with evergreen, yet his tone stayed gruff without rising in frustration. A contradiction in comparison to the colorful, angry words used.

"_Let's go…~_" A melodic Spanish whisper was brimming with anticipation from his tucked in hands upon the silver worktable.

"Five. Fucking. Minutes." His aggravation had started to shine through… Antonio sighed, pulling himself up and stretching lazily while taking his lanky form to Lovino's side of the table, as though being near him would increase productivity.

The reality was precisely the opposite, however.

"Lovi…my silly, odd Lovi…do you see that boy over there?" Those tan fingers directed Lovino's focus to an empty workspace nearby. He didn't leave his cookie batter alone for more than a second to glance at what Antonio was describing.

"No."

"No? Well, how about over there…" He brought to their attention to a certain Prussian across the café floor who was enjoying his slice of Tiramisu a bit too much. "-That man with really light hair…the cherry eyes?"

"Cherry eyes?" Focused eyes went back up to pay dues to the strange adjective. "More like ...freaky, red, irritating, demon-like-"

"Ahaha, Lovino- my point is…his name is Gilbert-and I want you to look where he's staring…"

There was no doubt that Gilbert was, in fact, staring. But he looked as though he was trying to drill a hole in the wall. His tongue was traveling every inch of the fork outside of his mouth- as though seducing the emotionless presence itself into a dirty dance.

Upon further analysis, Lovino noticed Gilbert had focused more directly on a puff of thick fog behind another worktable. That cloud of mist was dearly focused on his sugar-flower decorations, or at least, as much as one could be when someone was licking a fork _that _suggestively.

"Do you see him now?" Antonio sounded a lot meeker than usual.

"…Yea…" Lovino muttered under his breath, jarred that his brain could produce such an illusion of a person.

"That's Mr. Jones brother…Marcus…_I think…_"

"Huh. They even look alike."

"That's why they're brothers… funny Lovi."

"Shut up, you know what I meant."

"But…either way… he works here…studying to be a pastry chef like his papa."

"And _why_ does that matter?"

"…Don't you see? He's doing _your _job- moreover…he would be. _You're _not allowing him to practice his skills in shaping cookies. And besides, if we leave him and Gilbert alone, maybe they'll enjoy themselves and get to talk in privacy."

"Tch. Talk with what- Their tongues and hands?"

"Why, of course! Gilbert loves talking with hand gestures…and…people need tongues to make words, don't they? Like my name would be 'Auwonio' without-"

"My god…you're such a dimwit."

"Why, Lovi?"

"Because I just…they- nevermind."

"So…why not."

"'Why not' what?"

"Why not leave for the grocery now?"

"Because I want to finish this, now fuck off!"

"Can I help you with it?"

"If the dough wasn't so damn…_resilient_…"

He threaded his hands through the gaps of Lovino's arms and waist on the table-replacing those hands with the sun kissed skill of his own brawny ones. The Italian's reaction was a jealous, embarrassed scowl.

The cookie dough wasn't difficult to mold at all, but Antonio kept his thoughts to himself; his chin tucked over learning shoulders to watch his movements more closely.

"Stop."

"Antonio- " He shrugged his shoulders to shake off the fly, but to no avail. Those sensitive muscles tensed when a very public, caring kiss was displayed on the dimple of his neck.

"It's okay…I'm going to help…" Interestingly enough, Lovino didn't join Antonio in the task, his hands remained idle on either side of the dough, astounded with the personalized show- Every knuckle, crease, and curve of the bronze hands moved in a harmonious, mystifying action.

"Am I doing this on my own, Lovino?" The lisp held a pang of sorrow, following soon after in an underlying taunt that pink Italian ears had failed to pick up. Antonio's warmth nurtured his neck, peppering some innocent and other earnest, more longing smooches on that neck.

"Lovino~…" His melody echoed clear into a blurry mind.

"…Can we leave now, Antonio?"

"Ahah, thirty seconds ago you were singing a different tune…"

"Things change fast- so leave-"

To enforce the words- he started to step back, but only blocked when the cookie-shaping wall of a man remained firm in place to create some even closer contact. A dark hum rang out, the spirit of urgency intensified, and the friction continued, as Antonio was no man to reject such pleasures.

Jittery blood was fleeing elsewhere, his lips going numb with the all the embarrassment and shame one could muster. It all happened so fast, in a stream of seemingly innocent contact.

"Lovino- "

Miniscule hints of desperation echoed around them. To any onlooker, the baker was merely helping another worker, and anyone who noticed their close proximity would excuse it, using the reasoning that they were only close friends. Antonio could get away with being extremely friendly without being labeled a pervert or a pedophile…That was the irony of it all- Antonio _would _have been only helping if Lovino hadn't done god knows what to spur the beast within.

He was sure that the baker could feel his thundering heart, fully aware of his curled fists as well as that increasingly red face…and only choosing to hum a childish, friendly tune in response. The wave of persuasion had passed. Now he was just kneading the dough and finishing the job like nothing had occurred in his heart. Well, he was finishing his cooking job- he had started a whole different job in Lovino's pants that the Italian preferred to keep private...as the odds were he wouldn't take care of that one, sadly.

Without warning, Lovino jammed an elbow into the cavity of Antonio's stomach, feeling an inkling of remorse with the _oomph_ that was forced out…but he was free from the clutches of evil wanting! Only momentarily, of course, because Antonio went out right after him, proving just how much he didn't want to be shaping cookies either. The illustrious duo stood in the middle of the sidewalk. A tanner brunette clad in the children's craft apron, the other in a serious black one that demanded respect.

They were quite the sight.

Gilbert stared at them from the inside, giving a commending nod to Antonio and wishing good luck while they set out on their adventure down the block.

* * *

><p>"So Arthur…." Francis trailed off for a second to focus intently on a more indecipherable sentence than usual.<p>

"Sooo Francis…" Arthur parroted, sarcastic in his tone.

"What shall we do after this?" The verbal arrow was deflected.

"I need to scrub these self-inflicted tattoos off of my skin and then perhaps we should eat…"

"Ah, that sounds like quite the enlightened plan, Monsieur…"

"Are you mocking me?" He started to put his shirt back on as Francis backed further away, signaling completion of the task. The exchange had sifted into a playful banter between the two, giving proof that the duo could get along if both felt cooperative enough and favorable.

"You had mocked me, to start… and here I was only curious about your rose…?"

"My…rose?" In subconscious anxiety, Arthur scratched behind an ear where the historical stamp remained, placing his weight sporadically on each foot in tense impatience.

"_Oui._ Your tattoo- the one I doubt to be completely self-inflicted because it's behind your right ear, I believe?" Arthur's hand moved, crossing his stomach to prop up a new bluff.

That English throat cleared in order to quell the disbelief and shock bubbling up inside him. It was difficult for one to talk when their mouth was completely dry, and in this moment, Arthur understood that all too well.

But Francis continued his daring, careless waltz into unfavorably dangerous territory.

"It's really nothing of importance- an act of impulse."

"_Oh?_ I get the feeling it is something more than that…"

Arthur did nothing to deny Francis. He did nothing to answer the question either, and left the room to shower.

Francis remained in his room where the writer had once stood- thinking in the sobering silence that turned everything inside out and sour. What had he touched in the writer that caused such a reaction?

Neither of them realized their similarities in this field. Indeed, they both had taken the same route in order to cope without knowing it. Resuming their lives with fabric over wounds to slow the blood that gushed out until it crusted at the seams.

Francis' wouldn't have answered a question that was very insightful either. So the prodding was saved for a later date.

* * *

><p>They'd gotten back from the grocery store- bags and pantries alike stocked with any and all things Italian, Spanish, and tomato-filled. Antonio even familiarized himself with the various cupboards and drawers by putting away some of the items.<p>

Lovino was nearby, standing over his desk in the office and quickly skimming his checkbook for the week's increment of spending money…locating a pen on the wooden surface, he grabbed it and steadied his grip on the utensil.

At least, he tried to.

But his body was not his own- those hands were shaking erratically…he couldn't even hold the pen, his loss of motor skills were very apparent. He threw it onto the desk again in one spastic movement, just trying to commit his surroundings to memory while they melted.

"Lovino? Are you okay?" At least Antonio heard the sickening thud of Lovino falling to his knees.

He couldn't breathe. Oh god, not a single bit of air would reach his dry lungs. A series of squeaks and puffs of air released from his restricted vocal chords, refusing to refill his lungs like he needed. As though just getting punched in the stomach, a silent howl surged through him- poisoning his well-being and tranquility within a matter of seconds.

Falling, he was definitely falling. His head was in so much stinging he could hardly stand it anymore…there was a certain point where someone's body would just abort everything because it was the easier path in a scenario to be asleep, to be elsewhere.

Lovino had reached this point.

"Wait-…**Lovino.**" Curling into his hair were the tan, warm fingers of Antonio- as though those hands were the single thing keeping him anchored to his office and not a dark, never-ending abyss. He was so scared, absolutely terrified by the drastic turn of events and the unknown trigger of the situation. As for Antonio, he'd never seen eyes more antagonized and mortified than right now.

"Please—Lovino…please tell me what's wrong."

"_The whimpers of a useless, mute throat could not voice his misery. There was nothing Lovino could do to state his troubles and consequently, the doctors could not do a thing either._ "

At least Antonio was here…

Directly beside him, peering into his eyes—Thank god he was, because without him, the Italian would have just given up, he would wonder what was happening and have no urge to stop it, just exploring the new realm with nothing to lose.

The grip of his hands diminished alarmingly- lacking strength to even support himself. Lovino was turning into a ragdoll far too fast for Antonio to help.

"I'm taking you to the hospital-"

"No!" One of the last pockets of air released from his lungs while his hand shot up quickly to grip Antonio's shirt.

"Yes, you're going now." Every happy moment they'd felt over the week seemed to dissolve into this sobering, sullen mood. Antonio worked quickly on Lovino's shaking body, pulling himself up with the fragile man in tow- his hands resting under the knees and back of the other. The Spaniard scooped the keys out of the dish and yanked the door open- starting to take some steps out.

"Nnnn-!" Lovino used the last ounces of his energy to hook his foot into the siding of the doorway, leaving Antonio to stare at the odd form of rebellion from his spot in the hallway. He was panting with more than limited supply of air, because he knew going to an infirmary would be useless. The life drained out, and Antonio wasn't quick enough to catch or replace it with some of his own.

"Lovino, this isn't funny! We need to go!"

"I—I don't…It's just my…"

Antonio waited for the tired sentence to come out, but it was hard- trying to decide between listening to his own blaring conscience and his dearest companion. He felt determined to restore the attitude of his limp, barely-conscious love, and that it could only be achieved through advanced help.

But his lone smile had injected another speech into his head, tackling the writer directly in the battle- he was the opposition that said "Get up, you can't go yet…"

"Asthma…"

"Lovi-"

"Please…Ple- please." He begged in the form of a sob, his volume fading into an exhausted whimper. "Just get me...water."

Lovino didn't know what would help truthfully, and he was aware that asthma was a false condition of his. As long as Antonio was there however, something had to go right. Lovino had developed a theory that this writer had a very dark, tongue-in-cheek sense of humor. And the irony of dying on the way to a hospital to save his life might have been too tempting for this kind of man.

So Antonio, releasing the stuffy air from the cage of his lungs, carried Lovino, whom was still a wheezing, petrified mess, back into the apartment to fare on their own. The beige sheets were peeled back to place the wilted form in to sleep, in hopes of curing the plague of exhaustion.

* * *

><p>It was taboo to commemorate a death—clinking their glasses together, one full of wine and the other, golden ale. Of course, this all happened after the trial of twisting and morphing Arthur in uncomfortable ways to copy his literary masterpiece onto lasting paper.<p>

_This _was Arthur's working environment; the madness could help him become comfortable enough to relate to the opposite, clarity. The drunken slurs, happy piano rag-times, and cool ale slinking down his throat…it was much better than a high-quality place that would only serve to making him self-conscious, trying to prove his worth to watching eyes.

Merry spirits led to an open mind- and if Francis had a different idea of the word "merry", that was simply too bad. Because Arthur was the one who finished the book, not this accompaniment, he was allowed to celebrate for himself.

Francis was the odd one out now, and the writer gave credit where it was due, as it was difficult to call out his bluff. But the Frenchman's acting skills were not so strong to deflect the assault of a portly, obnoxious woman…snaring him in a captivating conversation about the wonders of Beef Stroganoff. Arthur had honestly never seen someone so uncomfortable, perhaps she held a phobia of his?

Though unexpected, Francis had managed to order a glass of wine without being pummeled in discrimination. Additionally, while the evening ticked by, Francis looked at Arthur from time to time, noting that every mug of beer made his tresses more disgruntled than usual. By the fourth time blue eyes surveyed him, Arthur was staring back, two poison apples looked upon the Frenchman, sealing his fate with habitual sneer.

The Frenchman, on the other hand, started to seep into his chair after the fifth round of wine. Little whirlpools drooping in a friendly demeanor.

Contrary to popular belief, Arthur did preform some sort of grieving to send off all of his well-made, complex, characters…it was after their purpose had been fulfilled. Death, even though heartbreaking, was the ticket out- immortals wish they would die already. Days would become listless, but the impending doom gave someone a sense of urgency, to seize the day. It was needed, no matter how sad.

Arthur sometimes suffered a cynical drop when not sober, it didn't happen too often, but when it did, it was very pronounced. All of the joyous grins and guffaws swirled into a single black abyss, stuffed to the brim with lies and bitterness of the past.

He explained this to Francis' listening ears…allowing the alcohol to loosen his grip on impatience and prudishness. Surprisingly, there were no retorts… Lone on Francis' face was a meek nod, a few casted glances of camaraderie, and the friendly gesture of talking back with his two cents.

They even debated about their curfew and plan to get home later that night, while the conversation ended in giddy chuckles. So the liquor was an oil to grease the gears of their opinions that, even though they wouldn't fit together, could work together on the same chain. They both ceased the childish act of hating each other 'because they felt like it'.

A declarative slap on the bar counter. "Well…we should go, yea?"

"Mmm- Sure, why not?- Can I take this with me?" Asking the bar-tender, Francis held up the bottle of red wine in hope of his good evening continuing.

With the wonderful conversation piece in tow and payment in pocket, Francis started towards the door- fishing his phone out of his pocket in hopes of getting a better ride home in a car.

Antonio…

The ringing tone started, awaiting an answer from a Spaniard on the other side.

"Hello?"

"Aha- why are you whispering,_ mon ami_?"

"…No reason, just tired."

"Well _that _certainly didn't sound like a lie…"

"Ahaha-…"

"…Don't care to tell me? Fine- Either way…I was wondering if you could drive me and _mon arteur_ home?"

"_Lo siento_- I'm busy…Sorry Francis…"

Gilbert.

"Mhmm. _Bon Soir~_"

Francis placed a few unsteady footsteps onto the dirty sidewalk whilst, scrolling through his contacts again to find some name that sounded familiar to Gilbert's in the confines.

Regrettably, there was no answer from him on the other end of the line though. The Prussian, whom at this precise moment, was at Matthew's house…_'Watching a Movie'_ as they'd put it.

Francis couldn't abstain from the thought of them going at in on the couch without a giggle. As a child, Matthew held a strange amount of attention to his papa's assortment of colognes. And for tonight, Francis loaned Gilbert the one Matthew said was his favorite. Actually…years ago, every day when the French-Canadian left the house for school, he smelled like he bathed in the stuff. So, that was enough proof.

_That _was the part of Gilbert's plan that would not fail, Matthew would notice the aroma, and maybe even relax more around the Prussian. Because it was always difficult to find a place that smelled just like home, like childhood. _At least he could be happy with someone._ They were complimentary to each other.

Blue pools switched their attention to Arthur. Vexed, cryptic Arthur…who didn't know if he was talking to a bench, a sign, or a woman- and even if he did, he probably couldn't identify his own language being spoken. The Englishman appeared to suffer from moon-stroke, in his element and consequently, out of his mind.

* * *

><p>Somehow, when Lovino opened his eyes, the light was welcomed. He was happy to be awake and observant of the baker next to him. Antonio was intently focused on the laptop in front of him on the bed, glaring at the computer screen as though he was waiting for a confession at any moment.<p>

"What're you doing?"

"Hm? Ah- I'm browsing this…internet medical dictionary…thingy. How are you? Do you need any water? More blankets? Are you hungry? Do you need a hug? A compliment? Are you running out of anything that I should grab-"

"Antonio. It's fine, really. I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Yes…_As long as you're here…Dr. Carriedo._" Lovino was basking in the sardonic tone.

"Ahaha, but I haven't taken a single medical class…"

"Well, you look pretty unwavering in your mission to find a diagnosis, doctor."

"…Can you please stop calling me that, Lovi?"

"Only if you stop calling me Lovi."

"Mmm, sounds like a deal!"

"Good-"

"-My wonderful lover!"

"That's not any better, ass-hole!"

"Well, your nickname for me isn't too great now either…"

"Tch, whatever…"

"Yes…my wonderful lover-…Ahaha~" Something was uneasy, he shifted his weight to a different, controlled pose- meanwhile, the nervous laugh became unwavering.

"What."

"Mmm- …" Antonio smothered a laugh in his hand. "Nothing really—just…" He pursed his lips again and the swallow was very deliberate, visually notable. Alert kindness in Antonio's eyes hollowed out to allow the impulsive, darker hues onto center stage. The whole ordeal seemed really uncertain…and because of that, disconcerting.

He placed the whirring laptop aside, onto the corner of the bed and lay down parallel to Lovino. All Lovino had to do was turn his drowsy neck to face the terra-cotta sculpture of a man. Antonio had been caught staring before, but all it did was initiate a contest. So this is what they did.

Antonio faced his whole body and attention towards his very dear companion. There was nothing unconventional about it to either of them. Observing the slopes and features on their faces until lids started to weigh down in lethargy, about to partake in the art of being Spanish, and resting.

The Italian was the first to fall off the edge, into the dream-world. And Antonio, no matter how tired, didn't want to leave him alone for events to unfold while he slept. His fingers sifted through Lovino's locks of caramel and guarded the pleasant dreams.

There was still that single curl though. It shook with every shot of blood, reverberating from his unwavering pulse. Curious, without moving an elbow, the two digits of his steady hand had gotten dangerously close – Antonio analyzed the distance between his fingers and the strand- decreasing the amount significantly within a split second of choice. It startled him when the color of Lovino's skin shifted like a mood ring, immediately far from a normal tone; he was only lightly tracing it, after all… The heart-rate still pounded through the wisp, shaking even around his fingers when he pinched it a bit tighter.

A short, apprehensive grunt formed from Lovino's throat.

Embarrassed, as he _was_ caught in the act, Antonio jumped back, making sure he looked non-chalant and unconcerned with Lovino's odd hair. Some noiseless, tense minutes ticked by on the clock until, again, Antonio thought he'd spare a glance upon the tranquil brunette. The brunette whom was still fast asleep.

He didn't touch it again, but he vowed to ask about it.

* * *

><p>"Oi…Franny- why is it that a house can be described homey…but a home can't be described as housey?"<p>

"…Arthur that's nonsense…" A timid chortle. "Utter nonsense." He shook his head …trailing his fingers along the textured brick surface behind the Englishman, contemplating..

Arthur twirled in spontaneity, clicking leather-clad heels in the air. On his second pirouette, he stopped to face Francis, only inches away. Another fit of visual calculations, both of them were sure to look indecisive in the sheen of their sights.

Arthur's eyebrows really _tried _to fool the other into believing he was upset and unappreciative of the closeness. But again, trying is not succeeding…

A coy leer set upon Francis' expression- and he asserted his position in the pecking order by placing hands on either side of the now pink English face.

They both reeked of alcohol, even in the pure nighttime air. They were a single speck in the unblemished night, demolishing the perfection to create their own. Francis encroached on his prey, looking forward to what was to come and relentless in his teasing. On the other side, Arthur had plans that didn't involve a very French tongue in his mouth.

Much to his dismay, the feral grin gave a solid response to his opposition. Yes, Arthur noted every word of the Frenchman's plan that was said through the shadows of possessive azure eyes. Another bubbling wave of vehemence spilt over Arthur as that mocking, knew-all-along, face peered too deep for comfort. A wild swing of his heavy, ale-soaked fist threw into the air and landed back at his side with no resistance in between. Afterwards, the Frenchman went in for the kill.

All of that rabid behavior that was effervescent in his emotions became squished. It was held back down the walls of his throat to fizzle in a croak of protest. Yes, Arthur was inebriated, but he would not, by any means, take the position of a princess kissing 'her' frog.

With the reaction time of a comatose person and green eyes growing wider by the minute, his hand lifted to remove Francis from his personal space.

Francis had already executed this part of his scheme- Arthur already too sozzled while the vicious appeared, pressed against his lips when he shot down the antagonistic hand. He worked quickly, hell-bent on placing the notion of craving inside Arthur so it would fester and singe later. To the point where Arthur would utilize any of his surroundings, for example: Francis, to ease the blisters. Threading one set of his talented fingers into the English hand and his others, at the base of a blonde's neck- tapping into his nervous system and placing gluttony and carnal longing where Arthur felt it didn't belong.

Francis' tongue was decimating any willpower to stay afloat, to remain on a raft of common sense. That Frenchman was the fatal siren in the water- convincing those young, lively sailors to dive into the stirring depths of lust. The free hand moved from his neck to chin in order to achieve a better degree of caressing.

Little, wispy blue sparks were rising up in Arthur's vision while his eyelids fought between open consciousness and ignorant bliss. Francis' lips continued in a brutal, bone-shivering fashion, utilizing every muscle in his neck and tongue to place pressure where he thought Arthur would want it most.

But, sure to allow Arthur his freedom, Francis backed away to see the result of his work. He wiped the remaining saliva from his own mouth with a feral grin while reading the Englishman's expression to process the mental state of him.

That writer was absolutely breathless, whether or not he would admit it. The pale flesh of his chin contrasted starkly with his glossy peach mouth, lathered in the Frenchman's token of affection. Even though he was stained with the curse of a rose-flushed complexion, his appearance remained nothing short of stunning.

Narrowed lime eyes had a miserable, indecisive sheen- motionless while plastered against the brick wall. His fingers sprawled across the mortar of the bricks- trying to grasp the panic and gain control again. Arthur held a delayed response of a startled cough and creased lips, starting to walk again in a stuffy, hurried fashion towards, regrettably, Francis' house without saying a word.

But that didn't mean anything. It didn't seal their fate as tipsy, lecherous bedmates…

* * *

><p>Through multiple attempts of aligning the keyhole with the key properly, Francis opened the door and allowed Arthur to prowl into the opaque, still apartment first.<p>

But what followed was the humorous, hollow smack of an English skull on hardwood floor. Obviously, the Frenchman could handle inebriation far better than him.

"Arthur?"

"Mnn-"

A sigh slipped from his mouth, hardly in the mood to lift the bag of bones. A finger flicked at the light switch blindly, revealing the sight of Arthur, face down on the floor in a position of complete surrendering.

After a few minutes of planning and attempts, Francis scooped up the ill-fated writer by his armpits and dragged him down the hallway. Arthur had no problem with this- an impractical, child-like grin was on his visage. Bottle-green eyes squinted when the only bed came into view, for he was grateful that his venture ended in plush comfort.

Like a spineless creature, he hoisted Arthur onto his bed, already empathetic about the headache the man would receive tomorrow for that blunder… Patent leather shoes were removed by confused, exhausted French hands and deposited on the floor for tomorrow's use. He took off his own soles and jacket as well before retiring for the night.

The Englishman didn't look anywhere near coherent, his limbs strewn all over, favorably pink against the mattress. But his eyes were dizzy and gleaming, wearing that same dumb smile and absolutely fascinated with the blank white box above them called a ceiling.

Francis pulled up the covers while getting in, not about to settle for a spot on the couch _and _a hangover when he woke up next. As long as he fled the scene before Arthur stirred, it wouldn't matter.

Then, in what Francis hoped was an appreciative action, Arthur's head tilted towards him- his eyes closed in a blissful smile from the wealth of blankets above them.

The lights went out, and Francis gave the dear associate a kiss. On the forehead, of course- because it was a thank you for getting through the night without messing up his marvelous face in a bar fight.

A voice bit through the darkness right after the silence had settled, however.

"That's _it?_"

Somehow, the three leagues of non-sobriety: Anger, Bad-Judgment, and Desire swirled against Arthur on one team. The anger stating that it could be quelled with desire. And bad judgment allowed him to think the theory valid.

"Hm?"

"_That's all I get?_"

"Um- Arthur…I don't' –_mmph!-_"

Francis knew what he was referring to soon enough- as Arthur was gripping his face in strong, commanding hands, forcing him to react even if he didn't want to. The anxious mashing that he was executing against the other's lips proved Francis knew how to steer him like a ship, and that, regardless of the fact Arthur was captain, Francis planned the vessel's route.

Ink-lathered palms gave admiration to those sculpted shoulders, un-wrapping the shirt that hid Francis from wanting eyes in a sensual rub. To Francis' interest though, Arthur held a scowl on his face- as though disgusted with the thought that he had surrendered to this man. He brushed nimble fingers down Francis' chest, sure to avoid the small bulge that had been waiting at the bottom with heartless mocking. The roaming abruptly stopped though when his fingers hardly touched the darker area on the Frenchman's torso.

"What's this?" The stain of a bruise lingered on Francis' ribcage.

"You. Two days ago."

"Hmm...it looks like a pretty good hit…" He moved closer to Francis' chest to further inspect the discolored spot. "How'd it come about?"

"_Arthur-_ must we really talk about this-" In the form of a hiss, tension increased. Arthur, while effectively distracting Francis, had seized the opportunity and made the other jump a bit from his own handiwork of tongue, stealing bits of flesh from Francis' chest and even forming a few low growls.

He watched the little mink preform, both looked at each other in menacing slits- partially betting for pleasure and on the other side, masculinity. An intensely rough tug of teeth brought Francis' attention back down to him. And without batting an eye, the heavy-browed man salvaged a declarative mark of red ownership with his tongue.

Slow, drawling breaths increased to hurried puffs. Clothing was removed and faces reddened.

Arthur might have been fearless, dropping onto Francis without a finger or two of assistance. But there was something off about his way of making love…

-It wasn't making love at all.

He didn't need Francis to get off- it was clear as the Frenchman lay below him, motionless. He was so deprived- rutting onto the other, not making a sound or looking at him.

But aqua sights could only observe him in awe…so flabbergasted by Arthur's conceited attitude in the bedroom that he was ready to walk right out of the room! He'd heard about the rumors of English lovers…and he didn't think it was fair to make such harsh judgment of the whole nation…but that prejudice didn't even sound botter now- it was a compliment compared to this.

This wasn't pleasurable…even the best of liars couldn't change the general opinion on this matter.

Even _Francis_ was hardly turned on at the moment. Francis Bonnefoy- a Frenchman who loved love, all people who believed in it and got excited merely staring at bras on a junior's lingerie rack. Because Arthur's hands didn't touch him once he'd gotten unclothed, his eyes remained closed- not in bliss, just red-faced and desperate. The Englishman even had the apparent greed to touch _himself _while riding him. His jaw clenched in focus and impatience.

It was sickening that this fool didn't know what he was missing.

He grabbed Arthur by the hips in mid swing- curving his spine to produce a dizzying amount of thrill in the writer. A gasp of astounded surprise echoed around them- those green eyes as wide as dinner plates. All of the writer's starved thrusting stopped, waiting for the next move to lift his ecstasy to a higher point.

So the writer's body was blessed with another surge of pleasure from Francis' tedious, carefully passionate movements.

Arthur even moaned on this second hit to his prostate…as though he had felt no passion before, just the need of relief similar to a hormonal teenager's. The sound struck something in the other blonde- it's raspy, ashamed yet honest need going directly to his groin and demanding more to compensate.

Every thrust served to be another shot of narcotic into their systems, leaving a woozy, breathless shroud in their brains while they continued to be intertwined and defenseless towards each other. The tremulous indulgence proved to be an amazing sample of love for the author, and it forever changed his standards of this intimate act.

* * *

><p>Sitting like a kindergartener during circle time, Antonio held his bowl of cereal as his show and tell item towards the window that presented a metropolis. Who would've thought this guy got up at six in the morning? Had Antonio ever worn those glasses before?<p>

The straining orbs of olive watched him from further away in the darkness; and another puff of air was stolen from him, forcing a cough out. Antonio's focused, rabbit-like chewing stopped immediately to face the patient.

"Ah…Hello Lovi…'feeling any better?" A soft, croaking whisper called back.

"Mmmm, yea." He rubbed his eyes, becoming more alert to converse.

"Good." Green eyes promptly turned back to their focus outside the window.

"What're you looking at?"

"The sunrise." He looked enchanted, a gleam familiar to childhood spoke in his tone as well.

"And my glasses?"

"Ah…well, your prescription isn't too bad so I thought I'd see what you see!"

Lovino had to resist the urge to scoff at such a…broad interpretation… of optometry.

Another content hum paired with a spoonful of cereal while Lovino shifted closer to Antonio in order to watch the show with him.

-He had every right to be fascinated by the sunrise though—pigment was just starting to filter into the spectrum of the sky- directing the moon to hide once again.

* * *

><p>Okay, first of all...I'm falling asleep as I type this- you should see my face right now...droopy and tired as ever...<p>

And I'll apologize again for being late...I hope you'll excuse me for it...And I'll be late again next week and we'll just slip into this schedule, yea?

Fail semi-smut is fail. orz I...I really wanted to get that concept across of Arthur's love life...as it would really be funny. But I don't think my writing style is good enough yet...

Sooo- yea.

ONTO THE NEXT CHAPTER.

~Gill

P.S. MTVQ- How's that fever goin? You better not die on me, because that's selfish, don't you know?

Also, I got a kitten...His name is Cannoli..he's tiny and white with light (I mean peaches and cream light) orange on his back and neck...- it's funny how much he looks like Gino... ** O**o**O Yup.**

**PICTURE: **http : / tinypic . com/ r /v8j7sw / 7

(I have no idea if this link will really show up...and I'm sorry all of the spaces are in there- but that kitten is so cute it's worth it.)


	12. To Plummet is Better Than a Fall

That little tuft of blonde, roused hair was stuck in the crevice between his arm and chest…too warm for comfort to describe. And shortly after, an even warmer kiss was placed right on his ribs- a pleasant enough wake up call...Small, foreign hands were lacing into the short curls upon his chest- sure to compliment a little nub in the process by thumbing it exceedingly well.

But that grip tightened- claws he didn't know Arthur possessed scraped at his skin, cruel and unforgiving to the pained whimpers he exuded.

"Explain why my arse feels like it's been drilled by a jackhammer, Francis." The writer's fatigued body slithered higher up to look clearly into his blue eyes- about to constrict his oxygen beyond the point of repair.

"You did it yourself!"

"I disagree."

"You were the one threading your fingers into my mane and tongue into my mouth! And who was I, a French LOVER, to deny you? Oh- you were in so much need of love! You're just…aching from the overdose!"

"I resent every second spent with you- I should have known you'd take advantage of this opportunity…"

"_Oh please_, I was not the one lining up pints of beer for your irresponsible conscience! That's hardly mature to blame this upon me!"

"You've failed me."

"_Non_- you simply lost control for an evening; is it my fault you were attracted to me? I cannot help that your opinions of me are so…_favorable."_

"Will you get over yourself for a single moment? _Look at me!_ I can hardly walk and it already frightens me enough that I have no recollections of last night's activities…"

"Drunk actions _are _sober desires…surely you know this?"

"Shut your sodding mouth and find my notebook. Now."

"Why do you need it?"

"I'm going for a walk."

"Ah, I could use some fresh air as well…"

"_I'm _going for a walk. _We _aren'tgoing for a walk…"

"Without me? You are able to move _without me? Even now?_"

"Oh, so was that your plan- to disable me with your cock?"

"When you put it that way it sounds so cruel…I prefer…forcibly enhancing your mind to see what's truly valuable."

Arthur's miserable vocal chords stretched when he tugged himself off the bed…trying, and not succeeding, to ignore the blistering pain as he set off for independence.

* * *

><p>"<em>Lovino's death approached slowly, like a lion surveying its prey…"<em>

"_Mr. Carriedo…his condition is- "_

"_WAIT!"_

"_-Cups of coffee he'd have to drink—"_

"_-Lovino…to open his eyes again, it was unreachable."_

Thousands of sentences and statements were revolving around his weary brain- creating this cyclone of a nightmare and a throbbing headache. Would it ever end?

Antonio had noticed Lovino's tossing and turning, grumbling nonsensically from his side- and outstretched a limb to save him from the miserable-sounding dream.

"Good morning again, Lovi…" His hand took firm hold on the other's and a soothing thumb stroked Lovino's palm.

His eyes were open immediately…but they were so desolate, so overcome and troubled.

"Antonio-"

"I made us some breakfast…"

An unclear mumble was forced into the Italian's pillow.

"Lovi- I can't hear you…"

"I said I'm not hungry."

"Oh? Maybe later then-"

"No. I don't want food today- I just want to do things…I want to live."

"-But we have every day to live! Eating is needed to survive and we have plenty of time…"

"Is that really true, though?"

"Sorry?"

"Do we really have a lot of time?— Was there even a moment that we didn't feel rushed in the past? All of our hours are eaten up by things we _have _to do- things 'the man' says we _need _to do…when the truth is- the only thing we need to do is ignore them…"

"…Are you feeling okay? What's got you so glum?"

His olive eyes had taken to staring raptly at the mattress. If the voice was true…and it really was surveying him…it would be better to do all he ever wanted, right?

But he hadn't planned anything to get over his pride and self-consciousness. On the other hand, he had Antonio…seemingly one of the most humble and oblivious people on the planet…so what was he waiting for?

That green light.

Well, the light had been green for a while…he just hadn't bothered to look until now…

Lovino rolled off of the bed they shared- ambling towards the bathroom while glancing at Antonio on his way out. "Antonio- I'm going to shower."

"Okay-"

"-you're coming with me."

The personal invitation went right over his head.

"If you don't feel well enough to bathe yourself maybe we should wait a little."

"N-no… I want you in the shower …_with me…_"

"But you're sick, Lovi!"

"That's not the point, dammit! Just get in the fucking bathroom! And… a-and I want you naked in 5 minutes!"

"Lovino—I don't think that's a good idea."

"If you're not in there… bare-assed and wet- I _will _beat the shit out of you! Now go! " A dismissive finger pointed towards the door.

Antonio got up from the bed in hopes of reasoning with him. "Lovino. Seriously-"

"Serious?If anyone's serious, I'm serious! Do you _want_ me to spit shine my knuckles?"

He tried to bark from his lower height at the bigger man, as Antonio really was much taller than him…yet it seemed like nothing was registering.

"Go!"

He hardly looked intimidated—just puzzled and slightly upset. "I really don't want you to-"

Then, Lovino physically grabbed the useless oaf and walked him into the other room, slamming the door afterwards and holding the knob to prevent any more resistance.

A quiet sigh of acceptance.

Victory.

No, wait. He was still just as nervous as before—However, now he was unsure of how to face a soon-to-be-naked Spanish god with some shred of pride…

Another item added to the list of things to worry about…His brain had set him off in the wrong direction…obviously, Lovino had spent enough time trusting that deceiving thought-machine…So it was time to obey another—the thudding mass of emotion he possessed that was placed somewhere in between lungs and ribs.

While taking off the comforting T-shirt, the looming feeling of calling this rape clouded in Antonio's head. Only it was called rape if he wasn't willing…and it would be a lie to say that. However, the given situation made him worried, and even more confused about the random act of impulse…Lovino was the one who nearly passed out every time he was kissed- every time his tan body got a little too close…that hot-tempered man didn't command someone to get into the shower with him…

Oh well…

He listened to the surroundings of the Italian's apartment for any sign of explanation or denial. But there wasn't one.

So he started up the shower's water to fill the dead, stiff air while he continued to unclothe himself.

Was he supposed to wait outside the bathtub? Or perhaps, start taking his shower? Or maybe Lovino just wanted him to wait in the line of water…Decidedly, he stepped in and decided to pass time underneath the cascading drizzle.

A restrained door opened and closed…very quiet and muted. Because over the water running, Lovino thought no one was listening…trying to shove feelings of worthlessness away with thoughts of another…he questioned his deepest shade of doubt- an ugly, dim purple that was bruised and weathered…

"…Am I worth anything?"

This whisper, soundless although burning all of his composure to ashes, was heard over the tumbling water- over the tears spilling. It was not stealthy enough to hide from a concerned Spaniard's ears.

Antonio looked out from the curtain, making sure he heard Lovino right. Indeed, the sight before him proved the truth- his puffy eyes that just couldn't decide what color they wanted to be…twiddling thumbs that weren't sure what hand motion to make in order to express thoughts clearly.

For a tense moment, he was dumbfounded…where had this question sprung from? It served him right to fall in love with such an unpredictable mass of ideas…there had to be a method to the madness. But whenever he'd thought he found it, all of the walls around him changed.

" Lovino…I feel like I shouldn't even have to answer this question, don't you see yourself?" He snatched a nearby towel and wrapped it around his bare body, walking up to Lovino's quivering form and making him face the mirror. "…The answer is yes. God, Lovi, I don't even know what makes you question yourself."

It was almost like the smaller couldn't bear to hear the words…his face tightened uncomfortably and only seeming to sob harder.

"I wish I could know why you feel that way, though…" He hardly uttered to Lovino, keeping himself busy and trying to refrain from asking too many questions at once by rubbing small, wet circles on the other's untainted shoulders…

A need to scream ran through the shorter brunette in a strong, irrational surge. Maybe it was panic…but he had stopped himself in time and constricted his vocal chords to a rough squeak. Fair, olive hands placed over his own mouth, trying to seal off the pain from past years, struggling to prevent its resurfacing. Still, he felt like a water faucet- spewing endlessly until something calmed him down.

Something like those intimate, and pure-willed hands smudging his anxiety away.

This wasn't what Lovino had planned. He was supposed to cry when he got _in _the shower- distracting Antonio enough to venture on his own sexual tangent without worrying about his fraying condition.

However, now, it came to his knowledge that Antonio wasn't like that.

He didn't have the heart to look into the other's eyes through the mirror, meeting such a rare kind of person and so afraid of losing him by saying the wrong thing.

Antonio's hands dragged upon the slope of his neck, back up to his chin bone and down to the curve of his shoulders over and over again until the red blotches on his face started to fade.

"Look. Into the mirror."

"You _are _worth something, you are extremely caring- I see it in the way you treat me...you are beautiful, conscientious in the most peculiar of ways, talented, attractive, and still too humble to see your worth."

The other's heartbeat continued to thread into Antonio's fingers from their tracing upon his neck …it sculpted an odd sense of closeness. None of Antonio's words infiltrated his frown, however…and he still refused to meet his eyes in the mirror, sinking further into his extreme denial.

"No I'm not."

"Tell me, Lovi- Who said this?"

"-"

"What makes you think you're not meaningful or valuable?"

"Every time I'm compared to Veneciano...every time I'm ignored, every second of effort that goes unnoticed elsewhere."

"You know- I think people notice they just-"

"Is it so selfish to want a compliment? To want a greeting smile? Sure. Is it ignorant of me to feel like this isn't enough? Yes. And so I _hate _myself for saying anything, or wandering in silence...what can I do?"

"The only thing you need to do is stop. Stop insulting yourself, or treating yourself like this...nobody around you can make you feel inferior without your consent."

"And it's the lack of questions that kills me-"

"It's not the end-"

He almost said it. The two words that would justify himself… Unfortunately…it all plummeted from his throat- like some sort of bottle cap at the top of his windpipe deflected them. Antonio was trying to help…and that's what made him even angrier about the matter…the fact that he'd face the baker's kind words with blatant reality. It was one hell of a 'thank you' if he'd ever given one.

In a careful dance, Antonio coaxed Lovino back into a comfortable mood- wrapping his arms tightly around his dearest friend and taking very small, gradual steps towards the shower. In pure spirits of getting clean, nothing more, mind you.

* * *

><p>Departing with a concept that had been on his mind for months while writing a book was difficult…like leaving behind an old house or schedule. However, it was time to do so. And Arthur knew he was capable of such a task.<p>

Quick, well-placed steps trailed after him- carrying such a drive that belonged to only one man- a particular American man.

"How does it feel to know you _killed _someone?"

Even someone as mentally elite as Arthur felt a bit taken back.

"How does it feel to know you're interrogating an innocent man?"

"You're not innocent! You're the villain…and I can't believe you feel absolutely _nothing- _Slaughtering innocent Mr. Vargas!"

"I'm sorry?"

Honestly, Alfred must have been mad to improvise this plot and present it with such confidence. This manuscript was still secured firmly in his hands- and here was the fast-talking American reciting his opinion about it like he'd read every page of the novel with intense focus.

Alfred continued to ramble about fairness and the guilt he _should _(but didn't) feel and pointed great, accusing fingers at him.

"Where are you getting all of this from?"

"You! You wrote it!"

"It hasn't been published…-"

"Lovino is a real person! And whatever you're doing in that book…it's some psychotic-weird-ass thing that's coming true! So you need to quit it! "

"None of it is real! That's not even-"

"YES! It _is_ true! Do you know who's going to be in the hospital? Your main character! Go check it out. And I don't know what you plan on doing with that book- but I don't appreciate it. I don't like your writing…always killing the heroes…that's not cool."

The Englishman continued his walk, only paying Alfred in a small chuckle while he tried to shove off his very apparent alarm.

"Have a nice day, sir."

Was that a glare? This man was adamantly _glaring _at his own polite farewell? He forbid any thought of legitimacy towards Alfred's theory…it was plain silly to think such a thing…wasn't it?

Of course, it wouldn't be such a trouble to visit the infirmary.

* * *

><p>"Hey—look at that kid's bike."<p>

Little things he hadn't noticed before now felt glaringly bright and worthy of attention …all of the leaves scattered on the ground painted the sidewalk in declaration of autumn's formal arrival.

"…I wish I had a bike like that_…_" He stopped walking all together…becoming wrapped in this memorabilia of his own past. He didn't have a bike- that much Lovino remembered. But…there was a faint call from his grandpa- the haunting tone of it escaping from the wind into his ears… And how Veneciano would call back in a melodious snicker…

"_He wanted to be in an ignorant state of peace…"_

Antonio's tan hand wrapped around his own- dragging him further towards the ground in hopes of having a conversation…

"Antonio…can we just sit here…?"

"Sure!" They settled on a single park bench, picturesque and perfect for each other in the given scene.

"I know you might think this is boring but-"

"No- I'm happy to spend my days with just you …"

He'd never heard such a candid thought, Lovino twisted himself to face the Spaniard. And Antonio seemed un-phased by the meaning behind those words, staring into the sky as though clouds were constantly being formed and re-shaped…

"Thanks…" What a mumbling mess the Italian was…as much as he hated it all, it seemed the baker understood, allowing him to let go in the slightest way.

"Lovi, can I hug you?"

"Why would you even…? —No! The answer is no!"

"But you deserve a hug."

"Right…and you deserve a thousand screaming toddlers…I deserve tomato-flavored ice cream…but we're not getting any of those things… "

"I disagree! "

"That's not what you're supposed to do."

"I have an ice-cream maker~"

"Not for long."

"Well, for now…I have an ice-cream maker… And you-" He paused, getting up from the bench and shoving himself into Lovino's light jacket "…have my heart."

Why did Antonio always say the strangest things in the simplest and quietest of ways? … He gave a finalized sigh and packed himself close enough to Lovino that he had no other choice than to enjoy it…moreover hide his involuntary embarrassment.

"S-Stop—you're making me cry, bastard…"

Reality was fading…all becoming enclosed into a single black box where the baker's best Tiramisu recipe lingered...and his warmth remained without an ounce of scarcity.

All at once, in the distance, there was a scream. Angry, derogatory names being called and shouted while Lovino's body seemed to snap in all joints at once, placing him in a crumpled heap of Antonio's arms and flickering out of his element. Nausea, dementia, disorientation, whatever you wanted to call it, it left him unable to explain anything to the Spaniard.

The park-goers around them seemingly went berserk, like an act of God had wordlessly occurred and put everyone in a state of panic. Nothing made sense and all was thrown into Wonderland, curious and mischievous in some sick prank.

Desperate and threatened, Antonio was tugging at his shirt, crouched over the Italian and shrinking his face into an unmatched level of concern as the fear of being alone closed in. Such awe-inspiring eyes were seen darting around Lovino's face to capture every inch like he would disappear any second…

Again, the symptoms that rendered the victim helpless the other day had come back in full force without relief…and it was obviously more than what the other brunette had tried to pass it off as.

"I knew it…"

Antonio was only angry with himself—for taking anything for granted if he had. For not finding Lovino earlier in life- he didn't even get to prove his love yet. And he'd be damned if Lovino would shed a mellow tear ever again…

And Lovino _would _live to shed another tear- it would only be of joy- or if that tomato-ice cream had gotten in his eye or something.

"_The feeling of falling was indeed an exhilarating one…and he wanted to get the most out of it. Because Lovino couldn't fall forever, everyone's brain smacks out onto the pavement and fans in a fantastic display of art eventually…"_

If Lovino had leaped off of the tallest building, and stopped on the way down for a handsome baker worthy of his time- he was now parallel to the 7th floor and plummeting faster than his companion would've liked.

Antonio broke out in the swiftest jog he could muster, and hardly registered the Italian's comatose weight in his arms.

* * *

><p>I...am terribly sorry. For not updating...and for putting this sad excuse up to stave you a bit longer...I'll have more of this later... as this is hardly a chapter...<p>

I just- I've had plenty of ideas but I couldn't form words...

Thank you for staying with me, you faithful and few!

...Remember- if there's something about my writing you don't like (or do...that's nice too. XD ), I'm always happy to please you...say so in a review or PM...but don't seethe in silence! (And still, manners are appreciated and preferred... :] )

Thanks- and I hope you have a wonderful autumn... unless you're elsewhere...like Australia..then- thank goodness summer's here!

~Gill


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